Outland (16 page)

He climbed out of bed, methodically dressed himself. The apartment remained vacant, the emptiness of it shouting, screaming at him. If he couldn't sleep he'd work.

The bustle in the corridors helped to wake him, but it vanished as he neared the security section. Only the mine worked double shifts. Administration was asleep.

There was no one inside the squad room to admit him. The night shift deputies were all out on patrol. It wasn't necessary to waste manpower by having someone simply sit inside. The machinery would greet visitors, answer questions, refer problems via remote units to the scattered deputies.

He stuck his Ident card into the gaping slot. There was a brief delay while the computer checked it. Then the door beeped politely and slid aside.

The lights were dimmed. Everything was clean and neat, awaiting the return of human workers. He started toward his office, thinking to check the evening's reports to the hour. His feet shifted and took him instead toward the cell area. Maybe Spota would feel more like talking now.

As he made his way down the narrow access corridor he routinely checked each cell. The corridor itself was dark, lit only by the pin lights glowing above receiver units and air controls. The two fighters had been discharged, a different cell was occupied. O'Niel checked the card gripping the wall. Another drunk. He moved on.

The cells themselves were brightly lit. All of the prisoners were sleeping, their biological clocks unaffected by the artificial illumination. The lighting was for the benefit of the jailors, not the prisoners. Anyone who wanted to sleep could darken his helmet faceplate.

In the dim corridor you had the sensation of walking through an aquarium. O'Niel would far rather have been looking at fish. Inhabitants of the type that usually frequented such cells had long ago ceased to have much interest for him.

Except one, the speciman in cell thirty seven.

Some of the prisoners floated sideways while others lay curled in fetal positions. The experienced lawbreakers favored spread-eagle posture because it kept you from spinning too much in your sleep.

O'Niel halted at the last cell and lifted the receiver.

"Okay, Spota. You've slept on it long enough. It's time to talk."

As stubborn as ever, he thought, when there was no reply from the other end of the line. Spota drifted with his backside toward the glass.

"Hey, tough guy."

Still no answer.

"Hey . . ." O'Niel's voice trailed away as he pressed his face to the glass and stared into the cell.

The oxygen tether leading to Spota's suit had been severed, both neatly parted ends floating freely in the zero-gee cell. A trickle of pulpy blood leaked from the section of tether still attached to Spota's helmet. Tiny red globules bounced lazily against the cell ceiling, the floor, and gathered in corners.

O'Niel's face twisted and he made an ugly sound as he slammed a fist against the glass. Then he was running down the corridor, out through the empty squad room, out into the main corridor and back toward Admin living quarters, a single thought in his mind, laughing at him.

Montone.

The door did not respond to O'Niel's repeated requests for entry. There was a chance the sergeant was somewhere else, but there was no need for him to hurry. He probably thought O'Niel was still in his own apartment, asleep.

He used a card pick to fool the door seal, exploded into the room, his face flushed, his breathing hard.

A quick scan showed no one in the apartment. The simple furnishings appeared undisturbed.

"Montone!"

There was no answer. He moved to the sergeant's bunk and saw that it hadn't been slept in. There was one other place before he headed for Sheppard's rooms. He walked angrily across the room and pounded on the bathroom door.

"Montone . . . are you in there? It's O'Niel. By God, if you're in there it'll go better on you if I don't have to drag you out!"

Still only silence.

He started checking out the room, pulling open desk drawers and dresser compartments. Clothes and personal effects were still neatly stowed in their respective compartments. That he hadn't expected. Unless Montone was in such a hurry to find a hiding place while awaiting the next shuttle that he hadn't bothered with them. So where the hell had he gone?

O'Niel had a new thought crossed the room and jerked aside the closet door . . . and found Montone.

The dead man's eyes protruded from his head. His tongue hung limply from a corner of his mouth, swollen and black. A wire garrote was imbedded in his neck. One end was fastened to the closet. The sergeant's hands were tied behind his back, the same grade of wire cutting deeply into the skin.

O'Niel stared a moment longer, then took a deep breath and reached into the closet. Eventually he unwound the wires and wrestled Montone's limp form to the floor. Terrified eyes looked past him toward the ceiling.

He looked around the room and found the bunk. Pulling off a sheet, he used it to cover the corpse, and then moved to the intercom to call the hospital.

When he finally returned to his own apartment he was more numb than tired. Above the computer console the green message light was winking.

Turning, he walked over to the station and slumped into the chair and wearily fingered the keys.

O'NIEL, W.T. MESSAGES?

The machine hummed brightly. O'NIEL, W.T. AFFIRMATIVE.

He touched additional keys.

PLAYBACK

MESSAGE FOR O'NIEL, W.T. YOUR EYES ONLY/CODED. ENTER CLEARANCE CODE

A little of the depression lifted from his brain as it was replaced with curiosity. Now what the devil was so important it had to come in coded at this time of night? He struggled to remember any code-relevant instructions he'd programmed into the console.

The machine accepted his code, replied quickly. SBVD DTKKHRCY. JBTFWPA.

"Fascinating," he muttered to himself, then typed in: DECODE. MY EYES ONLY.

The machine's reply was brief, but said a lot: FOOD SHIPMENT—ARRIVAL. MONTONE.

That dissolved the last vestiges of sleepiness. ELABORATE, he ordered the console.

It only repeated, FOOD SHIPMENT ARRIVAL—MONTONE.

The hell with elaboration, he thought determinedly. The short message might be eloquent enough. He turned off the console and started for the door. Out in the corridor he found himself slowing, thinking.

Montone didn't want to know, didn't want to think, he reminded himself. It got him dead. He increased his pace to a trot once more, but changed his direction. It wouldn't hurt to make the detour.

The entrance to the loading dock was unwatched. He touched the hatchway control, watched it slide aside for him. As he entered the dock he switched on the tiny flashlight. It thew a thin shaft of white illumination out into the dark jungle of equipment and containers.

He moved in, closing the hatch behind him. The light led him down the ramp between a pair of motionless lifters. There were no shifts on duty at the moment and his own heartbeat thundered in his ears. Places that are normally noisy take on a nervous quiet when they're unoccupied. The larger the place, the louder the silence.

It took him a few minutes to locate the containers which had arrived on the recent shuttle. Patiently he inspected the markings on each crate and cylinder. The light hopped from one seal to another, finally settling on several massive containers with ribbed surfaces. They had cold-seal markings stamped on their sides.

Another console had supplied him with names and numbers. He checked his hastily scribbled list as he moved from one container to the next. There weren't many and he soon located the one he was after stamped with the Company logo, the cold-seal warning, and the words REFRIGERATED/PERISHABLES.

The locking latches were tougher to break than most because the container was temperature as well a pressure sealed. Eventually they gave in to his insistent pressure and snapped open.

A gust of frigid air rushed out. O'Niel waited for the imprisoned breeze to subside; then he bent over and entered the container.

There was enough room inside for him to stand erect. His exhalations created small clouds in the freezing air. His shirt cuffs were pulled down to his fingers and his collar was turned up and buttoned in place for extra protection from the deep cold.

Sides of beef hung from large hooks, shiny red beneath the pale layer of frozen fat. It reminded O'Niel of hospital morgues. The rigid rank of beef sides ran the length of the container. Most of them would find their way to the Administration kitchen, then to the plates of managers and assistants. The workers would see little of it.

He started to work his way down the line of gutted carcasses. We've something in common, he mused, studying the beef. We're both a long way from home.

His light danced off protruding ribs. He wasn't sure what he was searching for, but knew that he'd recognize it when he saw it. So far there was nothing.

Until the wire slid over his head with a faint
whitt
of passing air to lock around his throat before he knew what was happening. The wire tightened immediately, beating O'Niel's hands to his neck.

He clawed at the wire, but it was locked tight around his throat and almost cut through the tough nylon of his shirt. There was no room, not room enough to get fingers or even a fingernail between it and his neck to stop the pressure, the cutting, choking pressure. He fought for breath.

Yario was no rabbit, like Spota. He was a big, solid bastard and he'd done this kind of work before. His knee pressed firmly into O'Niel's back, lifting the Marshal off the floor and arching him backward. O'Niel's feet kicked helplessly in the air.

His eyes were bulging wide and he was making harsh, rasping noises as he fought to break Yario's grip. He swung a few futile blows with his elbows. They bounced hard off Yario's massive sides, as did the feeble kicks he attempted with his feet. Yario's face was red with the effort and the garrote dug into his own hands, but he didn't let up on the pressure for so much as a second.

Slowly, gradually, O'Niel's movements grew weaker. The muscles in his neck ceased to stand out. His arms, then his legs stopped moving. So did his chest.

Yario took no chances, though he knew from experience the Marshal couldn't be faking. Not with the kind of pressure being placed on his esophagus. When he was sure O'Niel was dead he let go of the garrote. The weight against his knee went completely limp, crumpling against him.

He let the body drop to the floor of the container. So much for the Marshal. He wouldn't interfere any more. There wouldn't be many questions. Lots of people held grudges against lawmen. A place like Io would be alive with potential killers. The fact that Marshal and sergeant had died so close together would be explained away as an awkward coincidence. Or something.

That wasn't his problem. He'd leave the explaining to Sheppard and the Company. Yario was no deep thinker—he just did his job. Did it well, as O'Niel and Montone could both attest. Or rather, couldn't.

He grinned at the thought, stepped over the crumpled shape and headed for the far end of the container. The individual sides of beef were stamped with their destination. A few read CAFETERIA. Most read WARD ROOM MESS. A very few were directed toward individuals.

At the back was one stamped GENERAL MANAGER. Yario grunted satisfaction and started to turn it around on its supporting hook. He was getting chilly and in a hurry to be on his way.

O'Niel's leap sent him slamming into Yario's rib cage. The startled larger man was thrown off-balance into the container wall, the force of the impact momentarily knocking the wind out of him. O'Niel brought up the heel of one palm and drove it into the bridge of Yario's nose. There was a cracking sound and blood flew, congealing rapidly in the chill air of the refrigeration container.

Yario staggered forward like a wounded bear, thick arms outstretched to gather in and crush his assailant. O'Niel gave him credit for overcoming his pain and surprise. He wasn't about to give the massive machine operator a chance to recover any further.

Bending low, he drove forward and put his head into Yario's solar plexus. The air went out of the huge body with a
whoosh
and it doubled over. As it did so, O'Niel put all his weight behind the knee he swung up to catch the man's descending chin. The impact echoed dully through the container and spilled out into the shuttle dock.

Yario went down without a sound and lay quietly on the floor—as quietly as the sides of beef hanging suspended around him.

O'Niel stumbled backward, leaned against the cold wall for support, and tried to catch his breath as he stared down at Yario. The man wasn't faking it, as O'Niel had. He'd be unconscious for some time, for which O'Niel was grateful. A dangerous opponent, much more so than the panicky and now very dead Spota.

Reaching up with one hand, the Marshal unbuttoned his high collar, the rigid protective neck shield it had concealed still in place. With his fingertips O'Niel could feel the deep gash the garrote wire had cut in the tough plastic.

He unsnapped the collar and inspected it. If Yario had kept on pulling he eventually might have cut through the shield. But there was no reason to suspect its presence, so he'd let loose as soon as he'd thought the Marshal dead. Fortunately.

O'Niel tossed the collar to the floor and made certain the big man was definitely out. Anyone that big and quiet who knew how to use a garrote properly was someone O'Niel had no desire to wrestle with again.

Rising, he walked aver to the side of beef Yario had been turning. With satisfaction he noted the words GENERAL MANAGER stamped into the meat. He began turning it slowly, as Yario had been doing, shining his own light on the frozen carcass. There seemed nothing unusual about it; no sewn-up cuts, no special markings.

Using the flat of his palm he tried slapping the beef, the sounds hollow inside the chilly container. He was starting to shiver.

Unexpectedly, a slap generated a
whick
in stead of a thick, flat sound. Reaching into his pants pocket he withdrew a small knife. It was an old-fashioned folding steel blade, not one of the fancy laser scalpels like those used in the hospital, but it would do. He sawed at the outer layer of fat where his slap had made the funny noise.