Murder in Orbit (2 page)

Chapter 2

The Most Disgusting Thing I Ever Saw

The great wheel of ICE-3 floated in the blackness ahead of me.

I've pretty much grown up in space, so the colony is an everyday sight for me. But I always get a kick out of the way newcomers go on and on about the wonder of seeing the thing just hang there with nothing to support it.

Actually, they don't have that much trouble with the colony itself. It's okay for a world, even a miniature one, to float in space. It's the mirror that really drives them crazy.

Like the colony, the mirror is nearly three and a half kilometers across. Unlike the colony, which consists of a tubular outer rim, an inner hub, six large connecting spokes, and a long out-thrust spindle used for docking and mechanical purposes, the mirror is nothing but a simple trapezoid less than a centimeter thick. It reflects sunlight into the colony's interior.

(The reason we don't take our sunlight straight is simple: It would fry us. While Earth has a mile or so of atmosphere to soak up cosmic rays, there's no such luxury in an ICE Burg. So we shield the wheels with a thick layer of lunar debris to soak up the rays. Then we use the mirror to bounce sunlight in through a series of C-Ray absorbing reflectors, so that by the time it gets to us, it's no longer the kind of thing you'd wish on your worst enemy.)

Anyway, because the mirror has no visible connection to the colony, Earth-trained eyes can't help expecting it to either crash into us or just float away.

Beyond the colony, 240,000 kilometers away, floated Earth. Even though I was born there, I don't feel any homesickness for the planet. I hadn't lived on its surface long enough to develop any attachment other than gravitational.

My only regret about Earth is that my grandfather is stuck down there. My life would be a lot more pleasant if he could be up here to act as a referee between myself and my parents. Besides, Gramps has dreamed of space all his life. And while he was thrilled that my folks and I could make it, when I talk with him on the vid-phone—which is almost every day—I can see the longing in his eyes, a hunger so strong it's like an ache. He'd give his typing fingers to be up here with us.

Unfortunately, at this stage of the game everyone in the colonies has to pull his or her own weight, and then some. We just don't have much need for an old-time science fiction and mystery writer up here. At least, not one who doesn't also have some kind of technical skill.

That's one reason I'm working so hard at my education. I don't plan on being left behind like my grandfather. When the human race takes the next step toward the stars, I plan on being part of it. Biochemistry was Gramps's suggestion as a desirable skill for a starship crew member. Fortunately, it turned out to be something I love.

But that was a long way in the future. At the moment I had to get back to the colony to do my duty at the Waste Treatment Facility—a job I had been assigned because the plant operated on biochemical principles. Skimming around the lunar debris, I headed under the torus.

(There's no real “under” in space, of course. But the adults have gotten into the habit of referring to the mirror as being “up.” I guess since we get our light from it, it's too much like the sun they grew up with for them to do otherwise. Accurate or not, that leaves the other side as down, or “under.”)

Docking at the spindle that extends out and “down” from the colony's center, I moved quickly to an elevator that would take me the half kilometer “up” to the Hub.

The six hollow spokes that connect the Hub to the outer rim of the colony (where most people actually live and work) are about twenty-five meters wide. To my relief, there was an elevator just ready to head out along the spoke closest to the Waste Treatment Facility. Better yet, it was an express. That meant there would be no stopping at the offices and labs along the way. Putting on a last-minute burst of speed, I made the elevator, which traveled the kilometer out to the Rim in slightly over a minute.

Less than five minutes later I had punched in my access code and was walking through the door of Waste Treatment, or the “Sludge for the Stars Factory,” as my father insists on calling the place. Actually, that name is highly inaccurate. Nothing processed here ever makes it into space. An ICE wheel is a closed system. We use every atom over and over again—primarily because the cost of shipping up new materials is so high we can't afford to waste a thing. That reality is so much a part of our daily life that “Waste not, want not” is almost a religion around here.

The time clock made a red slash across my card as I punched in—an indication that I was late again. (That information was also entered into the colony's main computer, of course. The red slash was strictly for my benefit, a kind of automated reprimand.)

“Your mentor called shortly before you arrived,” said a mechanical voice as I crossed the room to get my white lab coat and gloves.

“Any message?”

“Yes. Dr. Twining says that while he is gratified to know you are as late for other obligations as you are for your appointments with him, he thinks it would be wise for you to start getting places on time.”

I made a face and slipped on the protective mask I wear whenever I work in the treatment facility. (The chemicals we use to break things down are too powerful to take a chance on any unexpected spills or splashes.) Then I went to the next room, where I did a quick check of the gauges.

Everything was in order.

That didn't surprise me. The computer monitored the whole facility. I was just here as a safety measure, to guard against the system breaking down—an unlikely event, since the plant has two backup systems to keep it going. I scowled as I made some marks on the chart on the wall. I don't like playing nursemaid to a virtually infallible machine. It's boring.

Turning to the holding tanks, I pressed a button and watched as the lid of one of them lifted. I had gotten into the habit of peering into the tanks to see what was being decomposed. I know, I know—it's disgusting. But it helps stave off the boredom. Besides, it fascinated me to see the stages of decomposition various things go through—especially in such a potent chemical situation. It reminded me of the time-lapse films they used to show us in elementary science. You know, the ones where you see a flower blossom in thirty seconds. Only here the process was reversed. I was watching decay instead of growth.

Anyway, since it was largely a biochemical process, I could always tell myself it was professional curiosity.

Making sure that my mask was secure, I peered into the tank. Nothing very interesting—just the usual mixture of kitchen scraps and fecal matter slowly rolling over in response to the giant paddles rotating at the bottom of the tank.

As I was turning to the second tank, something at the edge of my vision caught my attention. I felt a message from my brain telling me to look again, that something wasn't quite right.

I turned back to the first tank and cried out in horror.

A man's body was floating facedown in the chemical soup.

For an instant I couldn't move. I just looked from side to side, as if I expected somebody to step forward and take over.

But there was no one else in the room.

I was alone with the corpse.

Finally I ran to get a gaff hook to pull the body out. But when I returned to the tank, I caught my breath and fell to my knees. The action of the paddles had rolled the body over and I could see the man's face. His features were blurred by the action of the chemicals. His eye sockets were hollow. His skin was the color of luncheon meat.

The sight was too much for me. My stomach began violently emptying itself. Suddenly my protective mask became my enemy.

Choking, I clawed at it. Finally I managed to pull the mask away from my face. But the sickness had splashed into my eyes, and they burned with the acid of it.

Blinded, I staggered toward the shower. (Safety Regs require one where people work with strong chemicals.)

I didn't make it. Stepping in some of my own vomit, I felt my foot slip sideways. It pulled my bad hip with it. I cried out in pain as I crumpled to the tile floor. Then I was silent. At least, I assume I was, since I cracked my head against the floor and went out cold.

Oblivious to my troubles, the paddles in the tank drew the dead man back into the devouring chemicals.

Chapter 3

Witness for the Decayed

When I first woke I was too disoriented to think clearly. I put my fingers to my forehead, which was throbbing from the smack I had given it. I drew them back in disgust as I realized my skin was still coated with vomit.

At least that took care of the question of what to do first. Hobbling to the shower, I stripped off my clothes. Then I stepped in and turned the water on full force.

I yelped as the spray hit my skin. It felt like liquid ice.

It was a cry of shock, not surprise. I
knew
the water would be cold. (You'd never use warm water for a chemical accident, after all—it would only speed things up.) But knowing and feeling are two different things. So it was still a shock.

But the cold water helped to clear my mind. Considering what was going on, I wasn't sure that was such a blessing. I might have been happier if my brain was still foggy. And even after the shower I didn't know what to do next. I suppose if I had been on Earth, I would have called the police. But we don't have a police department up here.

We never figured we'd need one.

After all, if you're going to put 25,000 people in a tin can in outer space and expect them to form a productive society, you're going to be pretty choosy about who you let on board. That's why every colonist selected for ICE-3 had been triple-checked. First we were given a psychological workup, to see if we could withstand the pressures of living in space. Then the colonial administration used its computer to compare the psych profiles, to avoid “explosive personality combinations.” Finally the computer did a background check that was so thorough it could probably have told you embarrassing secrets about your grandmother when it was done.

The point is, if we didn't all get along perfectly, at least we were sure we didn't have any muggers or murderers on board.

Or so we thought.

That was part of what was so horrifying about finding that body, If I had been Earthside, I doubt it would have bothered me so much. I mean, I get the impression that in some cities down there you're lucky if you can get through a whole day without tripping over a corpse. But up here we never expect to see something like that. So when I found that body in the tank it left me feeling like my world had been turned on its ear.

My father used to have a sign over his desk that said EVERYTHING YOU THINK YOU KNOW IS WRONG. That was how I felt now. It wasn't a pleasant sensation. In fact, it was downright frightening.

“Get a grip on yourself, Rusty!” I yelled, grabbing my head and squeezing it. (God only knows what good I thought that would do.)

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. That was more helpful. As I calmed down, I realized my first step should be to call Dr. Hadley, my supervisor for this job.

Unfortunately, Dr. Hadley wasn't available. And Dr. Twining had told me he would be tied up in some political meeting.

Now what?

I decided to call the Office of Dispute Management. Even though this wasn't really up their alley, I figured they would be my best bet.

Dispute Management is the closest thing ICE-3 has to a police force, although the people who work there prefer to call themselves “Ombudspersons.” I guess that's fair, since their work is more diplomacy than enforcement; usually they don't deal with anything more serious than two scientists squabbling over lab time. Still, their job was to solve problems. And a problem was definitely what I had.

A man with steel-gray hair appeared on the screen.

“Office of Dispute Management. Can I help you?”

“I want to report a murder.”

The man looked as if he had swallowed something that was still alive. And wiggling. “What did you say, young man?”

“A murder!” I shouted. “I want to report a murder!”

The man looked angry. I guess people don't like having their day shaken up like that.

“If this is a prank …”

“There's a dead man in the Waste Disposal Tank! Are you going to do something about it or not?”

“What's your name?” asked the man.

“What difference does that make?” I yelled.

“I have to make out a report.”

I rolled my eyes in disgust. “Will you get somebody over here? We can make out the report later. If we don't get that body out of the tank soon, there won't be anything left of it.”

“Where's your supervisor?”

“I can't reach him.”

“What do you usually do in case of an emergency?”

“We've never had one.”

“Well, what would you do if you did have one?” snapped the man.

“If it was bad enough, I'd shut down the system.”

“All right, if you're telling the truth, and there really is a body there, you'd better shut down the system. But if there isn't, you'd better be prepared to suffer the consequences.”

“Thanks for nothing,” I snapped. I slapped the Off switch and took some pleasure in seeing the jerk flicker out of sight.

Then I went and shut down the system.

It wasn't long before I heard from my boss. The shutdown had set off an alarm he carries with him wherever he goes.

“Rusty!” cried a voice from the ceiling. “What in Sam Hill is going on?”

“You'd better get down here quick, Dr. Hadley!” I yelled. “There's a dead man in Tank One!”

He started to ask me a question, thought better of it, and said, “I'll be right there!”

And he was, too. Showed up just about the time the guy from Dispute Management got there.