Chapter 3
Chris rang the door bell of his friend’s home. He was wearing dark, functional clothing and carrying an empty brown, plas-leather shoulder bag. Later, when he was on board the ship, he would change into an Intergalactic Mining uniform and stash his clothes, ID, and credit card in the shoulder bag.
Chester’s home was located in one of the more curious neighborhoods of New Haven. The houses in this neighborhood were exceptionally colorful and artistic. Large, interesting sculptures were displayed in several of the front yards. An antique six-wheeled rover was parked next to one of the nearby homes. This was a neighborhood of artists, crafts people, and inventors. The creative sector.
Chester was inventor and his wife was an artist. Chris always felt relaxed in their unpretentious home, and had shared in a number of potluck dinners. Chester, among other things, created concealable spying devices. The demand wasn’t huge, but Chester provided quality products, at high prices, to a select clientele who were willing to pay. Many of his customers were Terran corporations, though most were Martian. He enjoyed his work immensely and two of his devices had been adapted for use in the medical professions.
Chris had gotten Chester’s name from a website while trying to find a homing device small enough to go undetected, but with enough adhesive quality it wouldn’t fall off the first time his target took a shower or brushed it against something.
Chester had responded to Chris’ e-mail, stating he didn’t have one, but could make one within twenty-four hours, if Chris could wait. At the time Chris had no other options.
They had met for the first time when Chris had gone to pick up the homing nanite. There had been an immediate sense of trust overcoming their differences in age and backgrounds. Chris and Chester could spend hours in wide ranging philosophical discussions.
Chris trusted Chester completely, and this trust extended to doing business with him. He made no effort to haggle over prices, trusting Chester to charge him a fair fee. He suspected he was given occasional deals, but was comfortable with the idea, because Chris gave him referrals at every opportunity.
Chester opened the door and ushered Chris in. “Good morning. Care for some coffee?” Chester asked.
It was still early morning and Chester looked like he had just woken up. He was still wearing his bathrobe. His kinky, black hair was pressed down in places and sticking up in others. Chris noted there was sand in the corners of Chester’s eyes. Chester was a few inches shorter than Chris, and on the heavy side.
One of the reasons Chris and Chester got along so well was because they were both a little unusual by Martian standards. Chester had been born on Terra, and had been invited to immigrate to Mars because of his high I.Q. and his penchant for inventing things. Having been born on Terra, there had been no screening of his genetic traits, nor had he received any training in controlling his autonomic system. Chester was shorter and heavier than the average Martian and would age at an accelerated rate.
His round body, clothed in the old bathrobe, moved sluggishly as he led the way to his kitchen. Chris dodged a low hanging artwork along the way.
The two spoke amiably for several moments as they drank coffee together. Chris surveyed a pile of books and paper magazines at one end of the kitchen table with some amusement. In spite of Chester’s gift for invention, he loved old technology, which included books and magazines printed on paper. He had a huge filing system of printed material stored in his basement, in containers called filing cabinets. Chris kept his own files in his computer, and to an absolute minimum.
“Corbin III is pretty far out. Why are you going all the way out there?” asked Chester.
“Intergalactic Mining thinks someone might be casing the joint. They want me to find the thief before the theft takes place. Know much about Corbin III?”
“Not any more than you would find on the net. But I am worried this case might be a little more dangerous than you think. Any theft from a mining colony would have to be sponsored by a fairly well-financed and well-organized group. They’d have to be, to get someone in, get the corbinite off the planet, and then resell it without government interference.”
“How bad could it be? Some pirates get one of their people hired as a miner to smuggle off some corbinite and they sell it on the black market.”
“You’re thinking too simplistically. Everyone who works on the mining planets has to go thru a thoro screening, right down to their DNA structures and their parent’s home addresses, by both Intergalactic Mining and the Terran government. The overhead costs of getting someone in means you’d have to steal a huge amount for it to be cost-effective. We’re not talking about a couple of kilograms. We’re talking a minimum of a ton. The only people who could afford to front that kind of money are going to be highly organized. As in organized crime.” The inventor leaned back in his chair. “And probably using trained killers as well. We’re talking about the kind of organized crime operating space stations outside of policed territories. You’ll need to watch your back.”
Chris made a mental note to include a hazard pay clause, should he ever work for Intergalactic again. “What kind of equipment have you got for.... surveillance and self-defense?”
“I have two devices available. Let’s check them out and see if either of them will fit your needs.”
They moved from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into Chester’s second-floor workshop. The workshop was a large room. The walls were covered with specialized tools and prototypes. There were three large work benches, each having its own special purpose.”
“Have you read about those telepathy helmets they developed on Terra a few years ago?”
“No.”
Chester scowled at him. “Do you ever watch the science news?”
“No, but I did see a really good martial arts movie about a week ago.”
“You say you want to expand your customer base to include other races and you won’t even keep up on current technology.”
“If it had been a documentary on the League of Interstellar Planets, or an alien race, I’m sure I would have been glued to my holosphere.”
“If you’re going to achieve your goals you have to stay focused on the info that will get you there,” Chester chastised Chris.
“I thought that’s why I hung around with you. So you could update me on current events.”
“That probably is why you hang around with me, and that you enjoy flirting with my wife.”
“I don’t flirt with your wife. I just compliment her a lot.”
“She thinks you’re flirting with her.”
“She may be right. She’s a beautiful woman”
“You just said you weren’t flirting with her.”
“She should see it as flirting. You should see it as polite compliments.”
“You can drive me crazy!”
“It’s part of my job description.”
“Well, you’re very good at it.”
“Thank you, I try. So tell me about the telepathy helmets. I have to leave in about an hour,” Chris responded getting them back to business.
“Okay. About two years ago, a Terran corporation developed a device capable of translating human thought waves into visual and audio signals, or pictures and language, of whatever the other person was thinking. It worked by reading both the person’s brainwaves and their aura and then translating the mixture. The system worked remarkably well. The only problem was the huge amounts of energy it required. It’s not exactly portable.
“Well, I’ve developed a colony of nanites that do essentially the same thing.”
“You want me to carry a colony of nanites around inside my head?” Chris asked with arched eyebrows.
“They’re perfectly safe. They’re made out of organic materials and contain no poisons or dangerous energy wavelengths.”
Chris thought about this. Nanite technology was commonly used in medical procedures and was considered to be completely safe. He was still squeamish about the idea of carrying a colony of them around in his head. He shrugged it off.
“What about the huge amounts of energy the original equipment needed? How did you get around that?”
“The human aura is sensitive to that kind of info already. The nanites just expand on it and translate it into something the human brain can comprehend on a conscious level. Also they only last for about an hour before burning out.”
“What happens to them after they run out of energy?“ Chris asked, picturing a bunch of dead nanites floating around in his brain.
“Once they’ve run out of energy, the nanites essentially die and breakdown, and then they’re removed from your body as a normal waste product.”
“What’s the shelf life?” asked Chris.
“They’ll last for about thirty days inside your body, or indefinitely if you keep them frozen and implant them later. Outside your body and at room temperature they’ll die within a week,” Chester explained patiently. A slight smile developed on his dark face as he recognized Chris’ discomfort.
“How do I activate them?”
“Tap on your skull right here, behind the ear, three times. Make sure you don’t tap on your skull until you’ve got your target set up, because you’ll only have an hour. After that, they’ll begin to run out of energy.”
“Let’s get them installed. Can they be removed for freezer storage if I don’t use them?”
“Nope. Once they’re in, the only way they’re coming out is as waste material.”
“So I need to either use them or lose them?”
“Something like that. One additional piece of info, the nanites will create a powerful magnetic field while they’re active. Scanning devices will pick up the field, so try to avoid them while the system is operating,” Chester said.
“Understood. What else have you got?” Chris asked.
“Come over here and I’ll show you. Do you have a cover or are you going to advertise to the world you’re a private dick?”
Chris smiled.
Later, as Chris was standing on the porch and they were shaking hands and saying their goodbyes, Chester put his hand on Chris’ shoulder and said, “Be careful, okay?”
“Of course I will. I’m always careful.”
“Yeah, right. Get going or you’ll miss the next train.”
Chester watched as Chris walked down the street toward the subway, and thought, He’s such an innocent. He’ll just plow ahead without a clue, gathering info as he goes. He says he’s relying on his intuition, but I’m convinced the only reason he hasn’t gotten maimed or killed yet is due to sheer luck.
At the spaceport Chris checked in for his flight. As he approached the gate designated for Martian citizens his face was scanned and recognized by the Martian registry system.
“Good morning, Mr. Black,” the robot attendant said pleasantly. “Eye scan please.”
Chris placed his eye near the scanner.
“Thank you,” the robot responded.
Chris still had thirty minutes to wait before boarding, so he found a seat with a good view of the lobby and passed the time people watching. The word ‘people’ had come to include all sentient races and was no longer specific to humans.
Since the age of five he had been fascinated by the different kinds of people, both human and alien. One of Chris’ hobbies was people watching. He had accumulated a large amount of trivia about alien civilizations and biology (some of which might be fictitious or at the very least exaggerated) from watching holovision documentaries.
There was a fair amount of activity at the spaceport today. Tourism and intergalactic trade had been steadily increasing for the last ten years, since the treaty between the League and Mars had been signed. A number of aliens he didn’t recognize were at the spaceport today and without even a name, he couldn’t access info about their race from a computer. Chris spotted a group of six green skinned humanoids he recognized as Belarians. Behind them was a being about four meters tall and looked a little like an octopus on stilts. It appeared to have its breathing organ and eyes enclosed in a clear dome. Chris couldn’t tell if it was wearing a shiny, silver, skin-tight suit or if that was its skin.
Probably from a water world, he thought.
He shifted his attention back to the Belarians. Belarians were one of three humanoid races listed by the League. Most alien life forms were far from humanoid. Belaria, like Mars and Terra, had a treaty with the League, but were not League members. Info was limited on their race and culture partly because they weren’t League members and partly because of the distance between their solar system and the Terran/Mars solar system. What were they doing here? How similar to humans were they? He had read about Mars opening negotiations for a trade treaty with Belaria last week. Perhaps they were here for it. The Belarians had maintained a treaty with the League for nearly two hundred years. Chris’ curiosity was aroused, and he would have liked to have found out more. But he couldn’t, there wasn’t enough time.
He had an assignment and a ship to board.
An argument was taking place between one of the spaceport officials and a Terran tourist. From what Chris could tell the woman’s extension visa had expired. She wanted to extend her visa for a second time and the official was denying it.
Mars had an open door policy regarding tourists and visitors. As long as a person wasn’t identified as a criminal on any of the League or Terran listings they could stay on Mars for thirty days. At the end of thirty days they could apply for a thirty-day extension, which was almost always automatically granted. After sixty days on Mars, an individual had to come up with a fairly good reason for getting another extension. Mars was interested in attracting tourists and trade, not unscreened immigrants.
An unusual ship on one of the landing pads caught his eye. Unusual in its size. Because force field generators were expensive, it was generally considered more cost effective to build large ships to transport a greater amount of cargo and passengers. A few rich families had yachts and the Martian Space Force had several small heavily armed police ships, but this ship resembled none of those. It had an anonymous look, with no outstanding characteristics. It was simple, sleek, and functional, incorporating an eclectic design scheme providing no clue as to its planet of origin. Chris was intrigued.
He watched as a shuttle picked up a single individual and headed for the spaceport lobby. Chris wondered if the “person” had business on Mars or was using it as a transfer station.
A Galatian, an alien with four legs and two trunk like appendages coming out of its head where ears might have been, temporarily blocked Chris’ view of the taxi and distracted him. The four tendril-like fingers extending from each trunk fascinated Chris. They were supposed to be incredibly sensitive and capable of micro-precision work. Chris had read Galatians had developed microscopic vision as well, but as a consequence couldn’t see anything more than four meters away.
Chris shifted his attention back to the shuttle which had just arrived. A human (or at least he appeared to be human) got out of the shuttle and entered the spaceport. Dark, curly hair, a stocky frame, well dressed, tense musculature, eyes scanning everything as though looking for a threat. Chris recognized the body language and behavior. There were times when he had been on assignment and had acted the same way. Chris slowly turned his face away as the man’s eyes moved towards and past him.
I wonder what he does for a living. Terran clothing style. Possibly a trouble shooter for one of the big Terran corporations.
The man was met by two other well-dressed individuals, a man and a woman, and all three exited through a boarding gate.
Chris spotted a group of Terran tourists entering the spaceport lobby. Terrans had a greater range of body weights and heights than most Martians. He was always impressed with the amazing diversity human genetics were capable of.
His thoughts drifted to the two years he had lived on Terra as an apprentice private investigator. His mentors had been Frank and Anna O’Malley. He had been twenty-five when he first arrived on Terra. Frank had met him at the spaceport and had gotten him through customs with minimal delays. Chris’ first impression of the human race’s home world was there were too many people moving too fast. Everyone was in a hurry and, by Martian standards, were rude. They even spoke faster on Terra than they did on Mars. He had adapted, but had never been comfortable there.
In the car, as they drove away from the spaceport, Chris had commented to Frank and Anna on how crowded it seemed on Terra.
Frank, who was fifty, and to Chris looked to be about 160, had explained, “Global warming shrank the amount of available living space about 300 years ago. Earth had already been overpopulated. The shrinking of the land masses just made things worse. We’ve come a long way in controlling the population, but not far enough. We’ve managed to stabilize it, but not shrink it.”
His wife Anna, a plain-looking woman with dark hair, had chimed in, “We’re also gaining control of the greenhouse effect. By not polluting the atmosphere and the oceans, the planet is starting to cool down a little. All of the continents have regained a few miles of coastline. They’ve even started adding ozone to the upper atmosphere to block out ultra-violet. It’s kind of exciting to think I’ll be around to see a lot of the environmental damage repaired.”
Chris had landed at the Toronto Spaceport. Frank and Anna’s home was in Michigan, a peninsula state of North America. Michigan was almost completely surrounded by huge inland Lakes called collectively the Great Lakes. “I saw a map showing the Great Lakes as much smaller 300 years ago, with Michigan looked like a giant mitten,” Chris had said. “Do you think it will ever look like that again?”
“Not for a long time,” Frank had said authoritatively. “I’m not sure I want global warming reversed much more. Winters were awfully cold back then. I understand it was common for them to get up to two feet of snow. We’d have to move south if we started getting that kind of weather. I don’t think they’re planning to go that far with climate reversal.”
“It’s March now,” Anna said.” The weather will be quite comfortable for the next couple of months. Late June and July will be really hot and muggy. This is your first time on Earth isn’t it Chris?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll see some incredible thunderstorms in July. The weather here is a lot more violent than what you get on Mars.”
Martian weather was generally fairly calm due to the minimal amount of moisture and clouds on the planet. Early in the terraforming process, Mars had transported six large, water-based comets to its surface. Combined with the water already on Mars, they had enough water to sustain a livable environment. Currently there was just enough water to meet the needs of the Martian population, and its dairy and agricultural farms, but they would need three times the amount available to grow forests on the Martian plains.
Maybe then they would have thunderstorms on Mars, Chris had thought.
Anna had been right. Chris had thought the house was going to blow down during what turned out to be a fairly mild storm in late May.
You couldn’t leave the house during the July storms. Frank had an assignment in Texas the first week of July and had managed to miss the first storm of the month through careful planning. He had also made sure Chris reached his assignment.
As part of his apprenticeship, Frank had set Chris up to work for a mechanic at a space ship repair shop. Frank had said it was “basic information every private detective needed to know.” The head mechanic, a friend of Frank’s, was always feeding him unusual tidbits of information: How to short circuit an engine or a computer; How to track a space ship by the wake thermal turmoil trailing behind it; How to bypass a ship’s computer and run a ship while standing at the engine controls.
During the month of June, he had worked as an elevator operator at one of the casinos. There, his assignment had been to memorize the face, height, weight, and clothing of everyone who got on the elevator. Gradually, he got better and better at it. Chris learned to take a mental photo of people as they entered the elevator with the blink of an eye. As his eyelids closed, he would attempt to memorize the details of the individual he had just seen. Opening his eyes, he would start the process again on the next person. After the passengers had boarded and everyone was facing the doors he would review the images a second time. As the passengers left he would double check to see if his “photos” were accurate.
Frank and Anna had split the responsibilities of his training. Anna was in charge of his people skills and Frank was in charge of his technical know how and street smarts.
Chris had asked Anna about Terran laws regarding genetics and birth control after interviewing a woman who had Lupus. They had just gotten in the car and Anna was driving.
“The Doctors Union is part of it, though they’ll never admit it, and so is “The Church.” They both have a huge amount of influence with the government. On Mars, as I understand it, the government will pay for up to twenty fertilized eggs and the parents get to choose which one the mother becomes pregnant with. Here, the government is much more conservative. There are approximately thirty genetic diseases a citizen of Earth can use to legally select safe fertilized egg. They can only do five at a time, so their selection is limited and focused on avoiding certain specific genes. The government will only pay for the first five, ‘if’ the couple has one of the selected genetic diseases. The official reasoning for this is to keep a wide spectrum of genetic diversity in the gene pool. Of course the rich are able to find their way around the laws if they want to. A lot of them go to Mars and come back pregnant. The poor are stuck with the luck of the draw, but if they’re true Christians they don’t really mind, and see egg selection as a sin.”
Chris’ thoughts turned to a conversation he had with Frank nearly a month before the end of his apprenticeship. They were about to wrap up a case they had been working on together. Their client had been a large corporation which believed information was being smuggled out and sold to their competitors.
They were sitting in a tavern in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Frank had discovered the place, and liked it because they served beer in frosted mugs. The lighting was low and works of art created by some local artist hung from the ceiling and were available for purchase. Chris had to admit beer tasted better in a frosted mug than it did in a warm glass.
Frank must have decided it was time for a final evaluation. He got that look he always got when he decided the timing was right to tell someone something and he wanted to phrase things just right.
“Kid,” he said, “it’s been a pleasure working with you for the last two years. When you first arrived I didn’t think you had a prayer of becoming a private investigator. You came across as too innocent and naive, and with you it’s a part of your basic nature, not some act. But over the last two years I’ve watched it work to your advantage. People can tell you’re genuinely honest and they’ll trust you with information they wouldn’t share with me in a million years.
“The problem begins with you believing everybody else is as honest and caring as you are. Now on Mars, you can probably get away with it, but here on Earth you’ve got to be a little more careful. Especially watch out for the corporate types. A lot of them are looking out for number one and only number one. They could give a rat’s ass who they hurt or who they step on. Watch yourself when you’re dealing with them.” Frank leaned back in his chair, took a drink from his mug, looked Chris directly in the eye and continued, “You learn fast. You’ve got a good memory and good observational skills. Those are the keys to being a good private investigator. Your martial arts skills may or may not come in handy. It’ll depend on what kind of cases you attract. I don’t know what kind of business you’ll see on Mars, but I know you want to do business with alien races, and if it can be done, Mars is the place to start from. I personally think doing business with aliens is a goofy idea, but to each their own.
“Anyway, Kid, the bottom line is, I think you’ll make a good private detective. And don’t tell Anna I said that. I’ll deny it.”
The memory choked Chris up a little bit. It had been high praise coming from Frank.