On Mars it Rains Blood,
a Gemini Case File
We’d only just started the main course when someone screamed.
It was Samira Khan, our host.
Trixie, her current squeeze, she was
known to have a different girl on her arm every other week, had faceplanted into
her plate of pan seared halibut with dauphinoise potatoes and steamed
asparagus.
She’d been the first to die.
At first, the rest of the guests,
myself included, had thought she’d just had too much to drink. After all, her and Ms Khan had arrived at the
table late, tipsy and dishevelled after whatever activities had kept them
occupied in their cabin for so long.
But no, it hadn’t been the drink. Or whatever drugs they’d clearly been taking.
Blood had crept along the expensive
and ornate tablecloth, painting the embossed gold red, and another guest had cried
out. Devon Gibbs, the vacuous shopping
channel host, had stuttered and mewled in horror, staring at the blood on his
hands, his blood, blood running from his eyes and nose. He’d tried to stand. His chair had scraped the floor. He’d stumbled. Fell.
Half the guests, and our celebrity chef,
were dead within minutes.
I took a long drag of my cigarette
and exhaled a cloud of smoke across the glass of the dining room window. It obscured Mars.
We’d lost our pilot too. She’d been one of the least dramatic deaths;
she’d just silently slumped back in her chair, although the blood had been just
as torrential, and her body had gone limp.
She may have even been the last to die; her death had only become
apparent once the living guests had stopped screaming and the reality of what’d
happened began to sink in. Her husband
had become almost catatonic and had needed to be taken to the medical bay by
one of our servers to be tended to.
Damn it.
Captain Mavis Duke, teetotaller,
killed not by the bottle but by the first-class food of a luxury pleasure
cruise. I’d had some admiration for
her. Pity.
Goddammit, I needed a drink.
I turned away from the window, from my view of the red
planet, and took a step toward the table and stopped. No.
The wine could be the poison.
Goddammit.
I hadn’t come here to solve a
murder!
Murders, damn it!
There’d been so much blood.
So much blood.
It’d been a long time since I’d seen
so much.
Not long enough. Goddammit, it was never long enough.
I took another drag, deep, burning
the cigarette to the filter and savouring the harsh chemicals the flame
charred. I flicked the burnt remains to
the floor and blew smoke toward the contaminated cuisine. And the bodies. They were lifeless ghosts, their forms
covered by expensive white sheets, and had been laid in a row along the lavish
purple carpet to the right of the double doors that led out into the corridor. Red-brown stains around each head had soaked through
the fabric and become unyielding, hideous masks on the victims, bloodied faces gawking
at the textured golden ceiling.
Damn it.
I’d told them not to move the
bodies. I’d shouted. I’d told them to leave the victims
undisturbed, untouched, but it had been the only way to quieten both the
one-hit wonder Nora Summers, who’d screamed at me about respecting the dead,
and Samira Khan, who’d been loudly distraught at the death of her lover. Goddammit.
And the two remaining staff had been too subservient to our host to
disagree; they’d just nodded along to the demands. I’d almost felt sorry for them; they’d done
most of the work of moving the dead. Mrs
E, who I’d assumed would back me up considering she’d invited me on this deadly
trip, had quietly watched the arguments unfold with only disapproving glares at
Summers and Khan.
A crime scene ruined by emotion.
Goddammit.
I needed a damned drink but lit
another cigarette instead.
I should’ve known agreeing to this little excursion
would end in misery. I wasn’t the type
to hob with the nobs, but Mrs Elmendorf, Mrs E, had insisted I’d come as her
plus one, since her husband had work obligations; this wasn’t the first time
I’d taken his place, but this would be the last if this was the outcome. Ha.
An extravagant dinner circling Mars
in a high-end space cruiser. People
would kill to have this experience… and it seemed they had. I took a drawn out drag of my cigarette. Half the guests. We’d started out with ten of us, plus the two
staff and the chef. Lucky thirteen. Six dead.
Seven still alive.
I’d never needed a drink more than
now, and the potentially poisoned beverages on the table were tempting me to
imbibe them. I resisted.
There was some hope, at least; I retrieved the small
flask of whiskey I’d tucked inside my jacket.
I’d already drunk some- something to quell my queasy stomach during the
spaceship’s launch half a day ago- it probably had about a third left. I unscrewed the cap and took a small swig,
savouring the fiery amber as it travelled down my throat. I needed to preserve this. There would nothing to drink until the local
security rescued us, and they’d likely have nothing that would give me a much-needed
buzz.
Our abandoned dinner was still on the table, even if
the bodies had been moved away, and my stomach rumbled at the sight. Damn it.
The starter, some sort of light salad washed down with white wine, had
barely touched the sides and I was a little tempted to pick some food from one
of the unbloodied plates to satisfy my cravings. But a damned agonising death wasn’t a price
worth paying for a full belly.
I took another drag of my cigarette.
None of the guests I’d questioned had been
particularly forthcoming when I’d spoken to them an hour ago. Not even Mrs E. Shock, I guess. I’d separated them into their cabins, they
were still there apart from Professor Juarez and the staff, to give them time
to percolate and calm down.
Six people dead.
Seven alive.
And one of them was responsible. Maybe.
After all the perpetrator could’ve set this in motion before we’d even
left Space Station Delta and not even boarded with us.
Damn it.
Of the remaining living, there was me; Mrs Valerie
Elmendorf, Sector Six Council member and Chair of several charities; Samira
Khan, our host and socialite living off the riches from mummy’s successful
mining company; Nora Summers, a musician with only one hit song released over a
decade ago; Professor Karl Juarez, husband of our pilot and an expert in
something with multiple syllables that was difficult to pronounce; and Otto
Frost and Nicole Clarke, our servers for the evening.
Damn, my cigarette had burned out; I relit the remaining
half and took a drag.
The dead included Captain Mavis Duke, ex-alcoholic
pilot of this spaceship; Sherry Bean, Head of Acquisitions for the research
division at Tribeca Systems; Alvin Sanchez, newest owner and CEO of
Newton-Prism; Devon Gibbs, semi-famous presenter of a big shopping network
channel; Gene Garza, the famed celebrity chef and ours for this event; and
Trixie, Ms Khan’s now former… lover? Ms Samira
Khan hadn’t known Trixie’s surname.
No-one had. And I bet ‘Trixie’
wasn’t her real name either. Goddammit,
that was probably the most depressing thing; a nameless death, no chance to die
with dignity.
Everyone was a damned suspect. Even the dead, either through misfortune or
intent.
Otto Frost, the staff member who’d escorted Professor
Juarez to the infirmary had signalled the nearest authorities, or what counted
as authorities this far out; we were out of range for satellite communication
with Earth or any of the orbiting colonies.
The closest Mars Orbital Research Facility (MORF), one of three, would
be sending a ship to come get us. Our human
pilot was dead, and we were stranded above a dead planet with only the
autopilot to keep us safe.
I prayed our rescuers would bring some goddamned food
with them else I risk death on the contaminated banquet left waiting on the
table.
It would take several hours to reach us.
Damn it.
I’d agreed to give up half a day and a night for this
trip.
A day and a half.
Five light minutes, or five actual hours to get to
Mars, dinner orbiting the red planet, and then an overnight return while we
slept off the food and wine. Although I
don’t think our host had anticipated that some of the guests would never wake
again.
Most of our journey to the planet had been spent in
our cabins. Time to get ready, Mrs E had
said. But I’d spent the time asleep; I
hated damned space travel almost as much as I hated some of the nobs at this
dinner. I’d dosed myself with sleeping
pills and collapsed on the bed; I would have missed the whole damned deadly dinner
had Mrs E not woken me.
I finished my cigarette and lit another, coughing in
between. Chain smoking wasn’t a good
idea, but that wasn’t going to stop me; it was the only thing staving off the hunger
pains.
I eyed the cornucopia of poison again.
After the salad, we’d had two choices: mustard crusted
roast beef with crispy new potatoes and honey baked carrots or pan seared
halibut with dauphinoise potatoes and steamed asparagus. The food had to be the common link. Had to be.
Fish or beef.
Either fish from the farms on Lunar, which was the
only place you could get the real thing, or beef from free range cows raised on
one of the few orbital farms. Both were expensive
and beyond my means. Back home, I
usually made do with the lab grown mystery meats and their comforting chemical
taste, which would only kill me slowly.
Most of the victims had the halibut. And any reasonable person would assume the
fish was the cause, but I’d eaten the fish and I wasn’t dead. Maybe I was lucky. Maybe not.
Maybe only part of the fish was poisoned, and I just hadn’t delved that
far into my meal. Unlikely.
And then there was the matter of Captain Mavis Duke,
who’d ordered the beef.
Goddammit.
The drink was another option. We’d all had the red wine; I forget the name
on the bottle. Something posh. Except…
No. That wasn’t
true. Only some of us had the wine.
Captain Duke was a recovering alcoholic; she didn’t
drink. She’d had only water with a slice
of lemon.
Ergh, I hated lemons.
Maybe Duke was the key. No wine.
No fish. There had to be
something she’d consumed that linked her to the other victims. She was the common element because, so far,
there was no other link between her and the other victims apart from death.
Damn.
I needed to speak to her husband. I just hoped he was more lucid now; his
wife’s death had really hit him hard.
I took a long drag of my cigarette and blew a cloud of
smoke towards the half-eaten dinner.
Someone screamed, as if on cue to my thoughts.
Goddammit.
I flicked my smoke to the floor and took off in the
direction of the sound, skidding out the door into the hall and heading right. The scream had come from the ship’s bow, from
either the kitchen or the infirmary.
Only the Professor and Otto Frost, the staff member
that’d escorted him there, would be at the front of the ship.
I ran along the carpeted hall, passed the kitchen, and
into the medical bay.
Damn it.
Goddammit.
God-fucking-dammit.
Professor Karl Juarez was dead.
His face was painted with so much blood I could barely
see the pale skin beneath, and even though the other deceased guests had
suffered the same fate, the sight of his lifeless body slumped in a chair was
still as shocking.
Damn it.
I don’t think any of his blood was left inside him; he
was drenched from head to toe; his formally white tux and white shirt, fouled.
“I… I…” The server,
Otto, was fixated on the corpse. He shot
me a glance, but his eyes returned to Juarez almost immediately. “This wasn’t… it wasn’t me.” His voice was
quiet, measured. “I… I…” He was gripping a water jug tight in both
hands; his knuckles had turned white. “I
didn’t know this was going to happen.” Between
him and the body there was broken glass, a former tumbler, sharp icebergs
jutting from blood diluted by the water.
“I didn’t kill him,” he whispered.
A slice of lemon floated in a sea of red.
“I didn’t say you did.”
His head jerked toward me. “I thought the water was okay,” he blurted
out. “It’s just water, plain water.”
I took the jug from his bony hands and placed it on
the nearest cabinet before guiding the man out into the corridor. He offered no resistance; he was skin and
bones, almost a corpse himself; I guess working on a luxury spaceship didn’t
pay that well. I shut the door behind
us.
“I didn’t kill him,” said Otto. He walked to the window opposite, turned and
leant back against the glass. “Honestly,
I don’t know what happened.”
“Tell me,” I said, a little too stern, “why did you
give him water?”
He stared at me.
I sighed. “I
told you, I told everyone, not to touch any food or drink. Why?
Why didn’t you goddamned listen to me?”
“We… we’d been drinking it all night,” he said.
“What?”
“Me and Nicole.”
“What?”
“Nicole Clarke, my colleague.”
“Yes, I know who she is,” I said. The other server. She should be in the staff quarters below the
dining room. “It doesn’t…”
“I’d thought it’d be fine… the water,” he said. “He was crying so much… I… I… he needed...” His voice cracked and a tear ran down his cheek. “Water... that’s all we’re allowed to drink. We don’t get any of the nice food… not even
allowed the leftovers.” The waiter
dabbed his eyes with his sleeve. “Something
to be grateful for, I suppose.”
“Quite.” I
looked down the corridor, back towards the dining room and the guest
cabins. “Did you leave the professor
here alone? When you went to get the
water?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it. For
how long?”
“A few minutes… I… it wasn’t long. I just went to the kitchen and…”
“Did you see anyone?”
“No… I…”
“No-one?”
He shook his head.
I needed a drink and a cigarette. Goddammit.
“What about before you got the water?
Did anyone else come to the infirmary?”
“No. No, but…”
“What?”
“Nicole called me on the intercom for a chat,” he said. “She was bored. So was I.
And with everything that’s happened, everything that’s going on…”
“I get it,” I said.
“Gossiping.”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that.” The waiter shook his head. “We would never gossip about our guests like
that. We just needed to talk, yes,
that’s all. Anyway, it wasn’t as if we
chatted for too long; one of the guests called for attention and I…” he stared
back at the closed med bay door. “Oh
god… I can’t… so many people are dead.”
I offered him a cigarette, which he took gladly, and I
lit up my own. This whole thing was a
mess. Another guest. Damn it.
Was the latest death intentional or had Juarez just been unlucky? Was this a mass murder or were all the deaths
just collateral damage from one intended victim?
Goddammit.
I took a long, deep drag of my cigarette and something
clicked in my brain.
“Hang on, what did you say?”
“That me and Nicole didn’t talk much,” said Otto. He puffed on his cigarette like he was
sucking on a lollipop. “We just...”
“Tell me again, why did the conversation end?”
“A guest rang for something.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “And she went to them??” Goddamned stupid. “I explicitly told everyone to stay put! There’s a killer on the loose!” I grabbed the man by his collar. “Who was the guest?”
“I… I don’t know,” he stammered.
I let him go with a huff. It wasn’t worth getting angry with him; it
wasn’t his fault. It probably wasn’t
even the waitress’s fault. Naivety and
ignorance could be dangerous.
And the killer was still on board… “Have you heard from Nicole since?”
He shook his head.
Damn it.
“Stay here.” I
glared at the man to make sure he understood; last thing I needed was another
person wandering about the ship.
He nodded.
I took a final drag of my barely begun cigarette and threw
it to the floor. Yet another smoke
wasted. I prayed she hadn’t met the same
fate as Juarez and the others. I hurried
down the corridor, through the door into the vestibule and through another into
the guest quarters.
Quiet.
Empty.
Nothing occupied the hall, except for the expensive
adornments dressing the metal walls and floors.
Exquisite carpets, intricate vases, and saturated paintings. A cream sofa in the centre of the room. Part of me wanted to smash it all up, show
them all how truly damned worthless it all really was. But it would be pointless.
So much death.
And one of these goddamned bastards was the culprit.
Damn it.
I skipped the first couple of doors, they belonged to
some of the deceased, and rang the buzzer for the first occupied. It was Nora Summer’s room.
No answer.
I tried the next one along, Mrs Elmendorf.
No answer either.
Damn it.
I held down the buzzer, probably longer than necessary,
but there was still nothing.
Goddammit.
God-fucking-dammit.
I punched the wall, barely disturbing the intricate
wallpaper, composed myself, and moved along to the final cabin.
Samira Khan’s.
My hand paused over the buzzer. I might be wrong about Mrs E, or even Nora
Summers; I might be worried for no reason.
She… they might be okay… they both might be okay. I pushed the buzzer.
The intercom clicked and a weary voice replied: “Urgh…
what?”
I sighed relief.
“It’s Jack Gemini,” I said.
“What?”
“Jack Gemini?”
“I know who you are,” Ms Khan’s voice whined through
the speaker. “What do you want?
“I just need to check everyone’s okay. Have you seen anyone else? Any of the staff?”
There was no answer.
“Ms Khan?” I
pressed the buzzer again. “Are you
there?
The door swished open, and I was greeted with our
dishevelled host.
“No,” she growled.
She wrapped her dressing gown tighter as if trying to suppress the more
formal gown beneath. She sniffed. “I’ve not seen anyone.” Her dark eye shadow had thawed beneath
reddened eyes and carved branches along her cheeks.
“I just…”
“Why would I, Mr Gemini?” A forceful finger jabbed at the air in front
of my face. “What do you think I’ve been
doing all evening?” She wiped an eye
with the back of her hand and smudged her make-up further. “Living it large? Partying?
I haven’t seen anyone. How dare
you.” She wiped the other eye.
“Thank you, Ms Khan.”
I snapped a courteous smile and a nod.
“That’s all I needed.”
She started to say something else, but I shook my
head, ignored her, and moved back to Mrs E’s door. At least Khan was alive. Unlike Juarez. Damn it.
And everyone else.
I feared the worst for Mrs E and Ms Summers.
And if they weren’t answering their doors, I’d need to
break in. I reached into my jacket and
pulled out my pocketknife.
“Hey!” Ms Khan
took a step toward me.
I continued to ignore her; she was alive and that’s
all that mattered. I ran my blade along
the outside of the lock mechanism on the wall, cutting a seam into the
expensive and extravagant wallpaper so I could get a better purchase on the
metal panel.
“I’m talking to you!”
I waved her away.
“Shut up! I need to concentrate.”
I hooked the knife under the panel and freed it, exposing the circuitry
underneath.
“You can’t do that!”
She grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away, but I resisted. “Stop it,” she said.
I turned to face her.
“Try again to goddamned stop me.”
I glared at her. “Go on.”
She said nothing, but a sudden wave of realisation
that something wasn’t right, flickered across her tear-stained face; her tone
grew softer. “Has something happened?”
“Professor Juarez is dead,” I said as I turned back to
the lock.
“Fuck.”
“Yep.” I pulled
on one of the wires and cut it with my blade; it was only a simple mechanism
and shouldn’t take much to get the door open.
Hopefully. I cut another
wire. Hopefully Mrs E was alive.
“What do I do?”
Ms Khan moved closer. “Can I
help?”
I shushed her and tried to focus; I didn’t want to
electrocute myself. I briefly touched
one wire to another and was met with a spark and a shriek… not from myself or Khan.
Mrs E.
Alive, and clearly not expecting company.
“What the…?”
The older woman grabbed her bedsheets and covered herself. “How dare…” her anger turned to confusion, “Jack??”
I nodded and tried to look as apologetic as I could.
“What’s going on?”
I started to explain but was cut short.
“We’re not safe,” blurted Ms Khan. “The professor is dead, and.. and, and…”
We were still missing two people. One door left to open.
“Samira,” interrupted Mrs E. “We’re not dead yet, and I don’t plan on…”
I let the conversation continue as I worked on Nora
Summer’s lock; I didn’t have time for desperate panic or soothing platitudes
from either guest. I needed to get this
damn cabin open too. I yanked away the
cover and got to work on the wires.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
A bright spark fizzed, blinding me briefly and the
third and final door shot open with a whoosh, and… nothing. It had silenced the other guests; there was
only silence from within.
No.
No, there was sound.
Someone was sobbing.
Then I noticed the blood, a puddle pooling across the
floor and out into the corridor.
Samira Khan cried out.
I glanced back at the two women; they had a full view
of the room interior and clearly, just based on Ms Khan’s reaction, someone was
dead; my suspicion rested on Summers rather than the server, Nicole Clarke.
I peeked around the edge of the door.
Damn it.
Clarke was sat on the bed, head in her hands and
crying. It was clear what the tears were
in response to, whether fear, guilt or something else entirely; just across
from her, the body of the musician Nora Summers was slouched in a chair, bloodied
face frozen in a death stare at the pooling crimson tide emanating from her.
Goddammit.
I looked to the two other living people and waved my
hand to gesture for them to stay back.
They both seemed a little too eager to involve themselves in the drama.
“Ms Clarke?” I moved into the doorway, stepping around
the blood. “Nicole?” It never failed to surprise me just how much
blood the human body contained.
“I didn’t mean to…” the crying woman whispered. “She’s… she’s… oh my god.”
Shards of glass, dressed with slices of lemon, sailed
along the wet floor toward me.
“Nicole?”
Her hands dropped from her face and her head twisted
in my direction. Reddened pits stared at
me. “I did this,” she said flatly. “I killed her.” Her expression was blank. “She’s dead.”
“I can see,” I said.
Was it that simple? Was that a
confession? Damn it. It couldn’t be that easy. No.
There had to be more. I needed to
get her out of the room and away from the body, away from the blood. I looked down; the red liquid was creeping
its way toward me. Nicole Clarke seemed
relatively unscathed, with only a couple of splatters on her shirt and some
spots on her face. “Nicole,” I said. I didn’t want to step any closer; not only
would I be disturbing the crime scene, but it would be safer for her to come to
me than me go to her if she were the killer.
I held out my hand. “Come to me.”
The woman stared, frozen.
There was a huff from my left; it was Ms Khan. “Arrest her,” she said; there was a quiver in
her voice, and I could tell she was on the verge of crying again. “You heard what she said. She did it.”
She pointed to the woman on the bed.
“She… she killed Nora… she killed my Trixie.”
“We don’t know that.”
Mrs Elmendorf put herself between me and Khan. She raised her eyebrow to me, a little
unconvinced by her own words. “Despite
what it may look like, right? Right?”
“But she…”
I rolled my eyes and garnered a sneer from Samira
Khan.
“She’s a murderer!”
The host pointed again. “She did
it! She told us she did it! Arrest her!”
“Now, just wait a damn…” I started.
“Arrest her!!!”
“That’s enough!”
I felt like I was scolding a child and, by the way her eyes narrowed and
her brow furrowed, it was clearly apparent from my tone. “I don’t want to hear any more of your
goddamned bullshit.” Any other time
I’d’ve laughed at the expression on her face, the look of surprise that someone
had the audacity to silence her. “You’re
not helping.”
Her mouth bobbed like a fish, trying to emit a
response.
“You need to either shut up, or get out of my way,” I
said.
“Listen here, I…”
“Do you have a goddamn death wish? I don’t know enough to keep you safe; do you
know how they died? How Trixie
died? Do you know what killed her?”
“Is that a threat?”
She crossed her arms. “I really
don’t…”
“What did I say?”
I needed a drink. “Shut up or get
out of my goddamned way.” I wasn’t in
the mood to deal with this shit. I was
hungry, tired, and sober. Too damn sober
for this. “Do you think we’ll get
answers by you screaming and shouting, throwing around accusations, ordering me
to do your bidding? No?” I needed several drinks. “If you think otherwise, you’re a goddamned
fool.” A cigarette wouldn’t go amiss
either. “Now, shut up.”
“I…”
I glowered at her and took some pleasure in seeing her
comply. Her shoulders slumped; defiance
drained.
“Jack,” said Mrs E.
“Is there…?”
“Same to you too,” I said, but with a more civil tone. “I need you both to keep out of my way.” I cast a quick glance from my dinner partner
to the host and back again. An unspoken
message.
Mrs E nodded and put her arm around Samira Khan. “Come on,” she said, as she led her away from
what was now the third murder scene.
“Come and help me get back into my dress.” Ms Khan started to say something in protest,
but Mrs E shushed her. “That’s enough.”
The older woman shot me a glance and I nodded in
thanks as they disappeared from my view and into her cabin. I could hear some whispered conversation, but
no words, and the door shuddered shut; I’d broken the lock after all.
I turned back to the task at hand.
Nicole Clarke was terrified. She was shaking, distant, a much more
emotional reaction than her colleague. I
needed her away from the body, and more lucid than she was right now.
“Nicole,” I said.
“Breathe.”
She swallowed hard and took a deep breath, in, and out,
to calm herself. “I… I don’t know… know how…”
she stuttered. “Oh my god… I don’t…” I could tell she was trying her hardest not to
burst. “I… oh my god… I just…”
“What happened?”
“I…” Her gaze
fell back to the bloodied body, and I considered entering the room and just yanking
her out into the corridor. “Oh my god,”
she muttered.
“Start from when you spoke to Otto Frost.” If I could get her talking, get her mind off
the dead…
She nodded and turned to me. “He gave me a call and asked if I could take some
water to the remaining guests. He
thought they might need it.” She
sniffled. “We knew the water was safe…”
“Because you’d both drank some and were still…”
Nicole nodded.
“Yes.”
Something she said didn’t feel... right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it yet, but
something didn’t line up. I urged her to
continue.
“I filled up a jug from the service station outside
the staff quarters downstairs, got a couple of glasses and headed straight
here,” she said. “I... er...” Her attention started to drift to the
bloodied corpse again, and her expression regressed. She was horrified. Either she was a great actress or not
guilty. Convincing, either way.
“Hey!” I
clicked my fingers and motioned for her to stand. “Quickly, come here.” This was my chance, while her attention was
diverted, not fully focused on her story or on the horror of the cabin. “Come on, now.”
She got to her feet, a little uncertain, eyes scanning
the room, not settling on anything.
Nicole’s shock had pretty much broken, almost as if she were coming to
from a deep sleep; I had to be careful not to frighten her back into her
malaise. She tiptoed around the pooling
blood, still shaking. She paused near
the door.
“Almost there,” I said.
The spaceship shuddered, distracting the server from
her path, and her gaze shifted once more to the body. She paused.
Damn it. She was close enough; I
grabbed her arm and pulled, taking her out of the crime scene and into the
hallway. She stumbled as I let go, cried
out. I reached into the door mechanism,
pulled on the loose wires, and with a couple of sparks, and a slight electric
shock on my skin, the door slammed shut.
Nicole let out a sigh as the reddened room
disappeared; the only evidence was a small puddle that had seeped out before
the door had shut.
I guided her to the small seating area in the centre
of the hall and sat her down.
“Tell me again,” I said. She declined the cigarette I offered her, and
I lit up. “Tell me again what happened.”
“Otto called me and asked me to take some water to the
guests,” she said. “He said they’d need
it; no-one had finished their meals so… so…”
My stomach growled in response and the server paused,
as if sensing my discomfort. I circled
my hand for her to continue. The vehicle
lurched, turbulence, and my innards flipped.
I took a deep drag of the cigarette to try to ease my belly.
“I wasn’t expecting him to call,” she said. “I thought we were meant to stay in our rooms
and we’re not exactly friends.”
“Oh?”
“He only likes to talk work,” said Nicole. “Plus, he’s technically my supervisor.”
“Technically?”
“I’ve worked for the company much longer, but he’s
licked enough ass to start a chocolate factory.” ADD HERE THAT OTTO’S FAMILY
USED TO OWN THE COMPANY THAT OFFERED THESE DINNER EXPERIENCES- USED TO OWN A
FLEET OF SHIPS.
I nodded. I
knew the type.
“And I think he’s a little bitter that I know the job
better than him.”
“Oh?”
“His family used to own the company that offered these
trips,” she said. “Before he was born.” The woman shrugged. “But they went under and got bought out by Calesthetica.”
“Now he works for them.”
“Yeah.”
“I can see why he might be bitter,” I said. “Please continue.”
Nicole sighed. “He
said, ‘get water’ and ‘don’t forget the lemon.’” She rolled her eyes. “As if I didn’t know what I was doing. Lemon!
What does he think I am? A
fucking idiot?”
I lamented for a moment about my distaste for the yellow
citrus and a cog suddenly clicked into place.
“Lemon,” I muttered. “Lemon. Goddammit.”
I stood and slapped my forehead. “Lemon!”
“What?” Nicole
laughed nervously, confused.
“Lemon,” I grabbed her shoulders and she recoiled. “Lemon!
It was the lemon; it all makes sense!” I let go and stood back; I was
scaring her a little. “Sorry, but don’t
you see? I hate lemon, so I didn’t have
any.” I threw my hands up in the
air. “And I’m alive! I’m alive!
I thought it was the fish, but it couldn’t be. Couldn’t’ve have been the fish! I had the fish. And I hate lemon.”
Ms Clarke was staring at me as if I was mad.
I sighed. “Captain
Duke didn’t have the fish, but still… I
had the fish and I’m alive. Who doesn’t
squeeze a bit of lemon on their fish?”
She continued to stare.
“Me.” I jabbed
my chest with my thumb. “I don’t. And what about Captain Mavis Duke?” The ship shivered again; the trajectory must
be rougher than expected. “An
ex-alcoholic. That’s important. She couldn’t have any wine like the rest of
us, but do you know what she did have?”
“Oh! Oh my god.” Her hand covered her mouth.
I nodded.
“Water,” I said. “With a few
slices of damnable lemon for a bit of taste.”
“Jesus.”
“Jesus hasn’t got anything to do with it. I know who’s behind all this.”
“You don’t think it was me?” blurted Nicole. “I gave water to…”
“You weren’t to know the lemons were poisoned,” I
said. “It’s such an innocuous little
thing. A squeeze of lemon on some fish,
a buoyant fruit in your water. Who would
know it would lead to a citrussy death.”
I held up my finger. “One person.”
“Uhm… the chef?”
“You told me the answer already.” I raised an eyebrow. “What you said…”
The floor rocked and I braced myself. My empty stomach leapt to my throat as the
artificial gravity failed for a microsecond and I dry heaved an empty belly. The walls and floor shook. There was a rumble from the back of the
ship. The engines were firing. Full throttle.
This wasn’t right.
This wasn’t normal.
This wasn’t just turbulence, or a rough trajectory.
We were breaking orbit.
Goddammit.
“What’s going on?” Mrs E, now fully dressed in her
gown again, had opened her cabin door; I could see Ms Khan standing behind her
looking considerably less dishevelled. “Is
that the rescue ship?”
I didn’t answer her; rescue wasn’t due for hours and I
didn’t want anyone to panic. It seemed the
culprit had either twigged that I was onto him, or this was his plan all along.
“Jack?” said Mrs E.
“Wait here,” I said.
“No, stay in your cabin.” I
sucked down the last dregs of my cigarette and flicked the spent filter to the
floor. “Take Nicole here,” I gestured to
the teary woman in the chair, “and keep Ms Khan with you. Keep each other safe and…”
“Safe?!” Ms Khan
barged out in the hall. “From what? A murderer?
Cracking job you’ve done so far, Mr Gemini! Nora Summers is the latest victim of your
incompetence.” The ship shuddered and
she almost lost her footing. So did
I. “My Trixie is dead, and you want to
keep us safe?! Who are you to tell us
what to do? To boss us about?”
“That’s enough,” I snapped. “Not again.”
I wasn’t in the mood for this. “Goddammit,
do what you want!” I threw my hands up. “Get yourself killed for all I care.” I could see Mrs E peeking out from behind our
host; she was trying to hide a smirk, but I wasn’t in the mood for any levity
from her either. I let it slide, and let
out an exasperated sigh. “I just want to
go home,” I said. “I want a damned
drink. I want to get off this damned
death trap.” The floors rocked and I
caught myself against the wall. “I want
to survive.”
Damn it.
I turned on my heel and headed for the door. I could hear Samira Kahn ranting about
something, but I ignored her again. I
needed to get to the cockpit and quick.
The door slid shut behind me and I bounded along the
corridor toward the front of the ship. I
didn’t bother to look into either the dining room or the infirmary as I passed;
there would be nothing except the dead.
Otto Frost, on the other hand, was most certainly
alive.
I reached the cockpit door just as another violent
quake hit the ship. I braced myself. Smoke, followed by flames, sparked and burned
up along the windows to my left, the oxygen in the protective paint burning
away in the thin atmosphere of Mars as the transport dipped deeper downwards. Goddammit!
He wasn’t trying to escape. He
was going to kill us all. He was going
to crash the ship into the red planet, to bury us in the forsaken deserts far
below.
Damn it.
The door was locked.
I’d expected as much. I took my
knife to the panel to the right of the door, peeling away the metal cover to
access the wires beneath.
The ship shuddered and shook, it seemed to be getting
worse, and I steadied myself against the corridor wall as I worked. This wouldn’t be easy; the lock was a little
more complicated than the ones on the cabins, but I worked as quickly as I
could. Something sparked. Pain.
I ignored it and squeezed two wires together. The floor jolted, and I had to catch myself
from falling, just as a loud crackle signalled my success.
A bullet caught my shoulder as soon as the door
opened.
Damn it.
I stumbled and ducked to the left of the opening.
“Otto,” I pushed myself back against the wall, out of
sight, and clutched the wound. “Don’t be
a fool.” I gritted my teeth. I was bleeding profusely; I hurt. “Turn us around, talk to me. No-one else has to die.”
“It’s no less than you deserve. Uptight, snobby bastards,” he said. “Can’t even feed yourselves.” He laughed.
“Of course.”
“The lemons.” Fighting him, physically fighting, would be
difficult. “But you must’ve known that
wouldn’t kill everyone, right?” I was
unarmed, apart from my small knife; he had a damn gun. “I hate lemons.” I considered rushing him and my shoulder
pained in reply; blood was soaking though my jacket. “What else did you have planned? This?”
“I didn’t need to kill all of you, just enough to make
the news. Change is coming,” he snorted. “An uprising from the depths of the gutters. You’ll see.
You’ll pay. A class war is coming
and…”
“Bullshit,” I said.
“You’re just bitter about mummy and daddy losing your legacy.”
“No! No, no, no!”
“You could’ve been rich, living it large with the
hobnobs.”
“You’re wrong,” spat Otto. “I told you that change is coming; my
parent’s wasted legacy has nothing to do with it. This is about justice.”
“Bullshit.”
“Think what you want; it doesn’t change anything.”
“But why crash us into Mars?” I needed a damn plan. A quick plan.
“What does that accomplish, eh?”
“Ergh, I messed up, should’ve killed you all while I
had the chance.”
“You didn’t expect Captain Duke to die,” I said. “Rather than a qualified pilot taking us
straight to the Mars Orbital Research Facility for the authorities to deal with
the deaths, we’ve got to wait for them to come to us. A long wait.
More time to be discovered.”
“It would’ve been easy,” he said. “I had it all worked out; I would’ve slipped
away unnoticed.”
“An escape route?
Friends?” That was a worrying
thought, but something to think about later and not while we were plummeting to
our deaths. “And I bet you didn’t think
you’d have a detective on board.”
“Ha! Detective!”
“Otto, stop this.”
I peeked around the edge of the door.
The man was fixated on the fiery view before him, the fast-approaching
ground, framed by the smoke of the spaceship forcing itself through the
atmosphere. “You mentioned an uprising. Turn yourself in, state your demands to the
cops.” The ship convulsed; we were
getting closer and closer to the point of no return, on the verge of being
ripped apart, an explosive death, our bodies likely evaporated before we even
reached the surface. “Listen, I can get
you in front of the people in power.”
The lie was sour on my lips; nothing changed in this universe… the rich
got richer and the poor, poorer, and a murderer wasn’t going to change
that. “Otto?”
“Fuck you,” he hissed.
He was still looking ahead.
I took my chance.
I screamed a battle cry, I don’t remember what, and charged
into the cockpit. I didn’t have time to
aim, but I flung my pocketknife toward Otto just as he turned and fired a
second shot. It missed. I missed.
Kind of. The bullet clipped my
ear as the handle of my knife cracked into his forehead. Yes, goddammit! It knocked him back, causing him to drop his
gun, and our weapons clattered to the floor in unison. I used his confusion to my advantage. I grabbed his bony arm and pulled him from
the chair; his thin, emaciated body offered little resistance and he flew from
the seat like paper in the breeze.
I reached for the controls as he staggered, but he
recovered quicker than anticipated. He
roared as he barrelled into me. My
injured shoulder roared back. We hit the
floor, his body weighing barely anything on top of me, and I tried to wrestle
the surprisingly strong man and pin him.
Goddammit.
The ship was shaking continuously now, and the clock
was ticking to our doom. It might
already be too late.
Otto tried to scratch at my face, but I seized his
wrist and pulled him closer. I
headbutted him. Twice. It hurt.
But it was enough for me to gain the upper hand. I rolled him underneath me. His arms flailed and I caught one under my
knee, pressed all my weight on him, made it hurt. Really hurt.
He tried to fight. Tried. Failed.
I punched him in the face and blood splattered from his nose.
I punched again.
And again.
And again.
He went limp.
My fist was coated in blood. So was Otto’s face. And the floor. I’d knocked out some of his teeth, broken his
nose. But he was alive; I could feel his
shallow breaths beneath me.
Damn.
I stumbled to my feet, fought against the tremors of
the crashing vessel, and rushed to the control console. Fortune favoured clearly labelled controls, or
rather it favoured uptight safety standards.
I hit the autopilot switch.
There was a hiss, the ship sighed, I sighed relief, as
we levelled out, and begun a smooth ascent back into orbit. The autopilot was only programmed to make the
ship safe; it couldn’t deal with anything too complex, but I prayed thanks to
whatever mad scientist had invented the damn thing.
It was over.
I retrieved a cigarette; the packet had crumpled
during the tussle, but the contents were intact enough. I lit up.
Otto was unconscious, and I took a quick moment to grab the gun and
knife from the floor just in case he woke.
I’d need to tie him up soon so he could face justice, but for now I was
going to enjoy some chemical goodness. I
puffed on the bent white stick and blew out a plume of smoke.
“It’s always the butler,” I muttered under my breath.
“Otto isn’t a butler, just a waiter.” Mrs E stood in the doorway with her arms
crossed. “I think this might be last
time I’ll ask you along for dinner,” she said with only a hint of sarcasm.
“It would’ve been the last,” I took another drag of
the cigarette, “if you’d had any of the lemon.”
“Lemon? That
was the poison?”
I nodded.
“Lucky we never made it to dessert.” She smiled morbidly. “Lemon meringue was one of the options.”
I sighed, suddenly remembering the forgotten whiskey
in my jacket. I reached into the pocket
and winced. This might be fourth, maybe
fifth time my shoulder had taken a bullet.
Probably not the last time either.
Mrs E raised an eyebrow as I unscrewed the cap on the
flask.
“Want some?” I said.
She shook her head, thankfully declining the offer.
I took a swig; it was good. No. It
was the best damn thing I’d had all evening and I downed the last dregs of
liquid gold with some haste.
I nudged Otto Frost with my foot. I’d beaten on him pretty hard, and he was
still unconscious. He’d said change was
coming and maybe this was all part of a bigger plan, something more organised,
but that wasn’t my problem. Not that I
believed his reasons anyway. Regardless
of his motives, people hadn’t needed to die for his cause. No. And
definitely not for his warped sense of justice.
There are some that say justice is sweet, but for Otto
Frost, it had been bitter.
Damn it, I hated lemons.
