The Furnace Page 2

  The Gates of Hell had a gaudy, fluorescent sign over the entrance: red flames licked upward and partially obscured the name in rapid flashes. The G wasn’t even lit; it had probably burned out long before.

  I removed the pistol from the holster strapped to my thigh, straightened my black CCF uniform tunic and stalked through the hatch.

  * * *

  It was dimly lit inside, and I paused for a few precious seconds as my eyes adjusted. It might have been a mistake, but I figured the uniform would prevent troublemakers from doing something too stupid.

  There weren’t many people within, just a few scattered patrons who nursed drinks at round tables. I caught some hooded glares, and a couple of outright hostile ones as well. I scrutinized the drinkers as I searched for Sirius.

  The bartender in particular stared at me with narrowed eyes. “We’re closed,” he finally growled. “Get out.”

  Ah. The usual resistance to the military. I was used to it by now; you had to be, in this society. We controlled nearly every facet of life, including the legal and justice systems, and we were bound to draw scorn from the civilian population. I kept my voice flat as I responded.

  “I’m not here for you.”

  “I don’t care, bud. Out.” He pointed to the hatch, displaying a stubby finger and a thick, knotted arm. The guy was big, stocky, bald. He had branding up and down both biceps, piercings everywhere. He flexed his muscles as I measured him up.

  I marched toward the bar. “I couldn’t care less what you want right now.”

  “You think that pistol scares me? You got no business here.”

  His type wasn’t uncommon; I’d dealt with them on many occasions. Scary to look at, tough talking, but when push came to shove, they were too slow to fight the good fight. Age, alcohol, brainstim and a variety of other vices had done a lifetime of damage.

  I holstered the pistol. “How about this? Come out from behind that bar and we’ll settle it, right here.”

  He stared at me as he considered. “You’ll be back with your buddies when I beat you. Or you’ll pull the weapon. No dice.”

  I spread my arms wide. “Scared?”

  He scowled. “Of what? A little guy like you?”

  I shrugged and studied him silently.

  “What are you trying to goad me for?” He bared his teeth. “Get lost.”

  I threw a quick glance around the establishment. There, in a dark corner, lurked a skinny guy in a dirty white T-shirt. Quint Sirius. I had studied the bar’s floor plan; I knew there was only one way in and out. If this bartender wanted to make a fuss, let him. I’d make an example of him right in front of the exit. Quint could watch; it would make capturing him that much easier. In fact, already he eyed me intensely, perhaps curious as to why a CCF officer was in the Gates of Hell.

  The bartender was growing angry. I could see the thoughts churning through his head. He knew I was determined not to march out empty-handed. Finally, his furrowed brow flattened, he moved around the bar and stepped forward. “All right then, let’s—”

  I took a huge step, turned to the side, and struck out with my left fist. It sank into his Adam’s apple and he stumbled back with a gurgle. I twisted in the other direction and brought my booted foot savagely into his knee. After a sickening crack he hunched over with a groan, clutching his shattered kneecap.

  Less than two seconds had passed.

  “You bastard,” he wheezed. “You tricked me!” Saliva dribbled from his lips as he stared at the contorted leg in his hands.

  I snorted. A typical response from a loser. I wasn’t a fantastic fighter by any means, but I knew that taking the initiative and presenting a fiercer, more intense front made up for a lot. That and the fact that he was in such a sad state had practically guaranteed my victory.

  In another twenty years, I realized sadly, things probably wouldn’t go so well for me. Take advantage of it now, I often told myself. One day you’ll be too old for fieldwork.

  “Bullshit,” I snapped. “I challenged and you accepted. Now you can limp to the hospital.”

  He glared at me for a second before flashing a glance at a man seated directly beside me. In his eyes I saw a hidden order...

  I spun and drew my pistol. “Enough. Stay there and put your hands on the table.” The man—already partly out of his chair—slowly lowered himself, fists clenched in anger. “Quint Sirius,” I yelled. “Get your ass up here.”

  From the back I heard a scuffle, and the scrawny man stumbled forward against his will. He fell before me and looked up from the dusty floor. The grumbling behind him had intensified. At that moment, he had no friends in the Gates of Hell. “What do you want?” he spat.

  “I’m here to serve a capture warrant.”

  “On what charge?”

  “Murder.”

  He blinked. “That’s ridiculous! I—”

  “Save it,” I growled. “You killed Tara Silvers and Michael Flemming.”

  His face grew pale, but he managed a quick laugh that sounded more like a squeak. “I don’t even know those people.”

  I gestured with my pistol. “Get up. Let’s go. I don’t want more trouble.”

  “Do it, Sirius.” The bartender was now in a chair, his ruined knee still clutched in his hands. “Get out now, and take the goon with you. And don’t come back.”

  “No problem there,” I said.

  Sirius jerked his head from side to side. “I didn’t do nothin’!” he cried. His eyes darted about in search of a friendly face. “Someone, help me! Don’t let him take me—they’ll torture me! Kill me!”

  “Torture is too good for you,” I said. I looked at the faces that surrounded us. Perfect. I had angered them, but they had no particular love for the man at my feet. I was going to get out of this with my health—and my pride—intact. “You’re on your own, Sirius.”

  The bartender snarled and pointed once more to the hatch.

  Sirius looked like a frightened little girl. It brought a smile to my face. Justice for this one would be sweet.

  * * *

  I brought the lanky murderer—all hundred and thirty pounds of him—to CCF headquarters, booked him into the brig and tried to resist the temptation to beat him to a pulp. Any murderer was bad enough, but this guy had killed the only friend I had.

  The cell was a small chamber with a narrow bunk and a steel toilet. There were no other amenities, not even sheets. I had to carry in a stool.

  He stared at me defiantly, but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes. He knew his odds were diminishing by the second.

  “You killed Tara Silvers,” I said without preamble. “And when Flemming found out, you killed him too.”

  “Nonsense,” he sneered, putting on an air of righteousness that was more act than truth. He had regained some of his confidence, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

  “It was in your file. When Flemming questioned you the first time, you claimed you’d never met the girl.”

  “I hadn’t. I don’t—”

  “But when I reread it I realized you’d been on Mars.”

  He looked instantly suspicious. “Yeah. For a spell. It was—”

  “Three years ago. You were there gambling and drinking. The same old shit you always do. Right?”

  “I was working!”

  “Sure you were. And meanwhile you were causing trouble and getting yourself arrested.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “No. I never got—”

  “CCF records state you were fighting. It was a brawl that you started, Sirius, in a sleazy tavern. The usual rock you’re found under.”

  It was always the same for his type of lowlife, and as a result they were simple to track and easier to catch. They never gave up carousing; it was in their blood.

  “Bullshit,
” he retorted.

  “You can’t argue with military records. It’s as plain as day.”

  “I—I—there must be some mistake.”

  “Nope. You were on Mars. You got arrested, and in custody, you met the girl.”

  He shot to his feet. “No way! I told you—”

  “You took an immediate disliking to her. She rubbed you the wrong way somehow.”

  “She wasn’t in the brig with me!”

  I paused. “Oh. So you were in the brig?”

  “I...” He trailed off, eyes shifting as he thought furiously. “No. I wasn’t. I told you that.”

  “Right. So there you were in the brig with everyone else who’d been fighting, and Tara Silvers was also there for some minor offense.” I didn’t want to say that it was prostitution. She was dead and cremated. There was no sense furthering her disgrace. “Something happened between you two. What was it?”

  “I never met her. I told you—”

  I plowed on, trying to keep him off balance and on the defensive. Make the facts seem strong. Don’t stop pushing. Be confident. No hesitation. “The records don’t lie. You had business with her.”

  He shook his head violently. “No way, man.”

  “And something happened. Something went wrong. Maybe you couldn’t get it up—”

  “Bullshit!” he screamed. “Bullshit!”

  I suppressed a look of satisfaction; I was close. Some sort of dysfunction had prevented the little weasel from performing that night. “So you couldn’t do it, and maybe she laughed. Maybe she made a comment or something. Whatever it was, it drove you nuts.”

  “You’re making wild guesses right now, asshole!”

  “But you were in that brig, right? You already admitted—”

  “No I didn’t!”

  “So you felt insulted by her,” I continued, ignoring his protests. “It stuck in your craw. Who knows? But three years later, here you are on Mercury. Hanging out in the usual dives. And surprise, surprise, who should you see but Tara Silvers. Maybe you spoke to her, maybe you tried to do her again. Or maybe you tailed her one night, found out where she was staying, and when no one was watching—”

  “You’re insane, man!”

  “—you broke into her place and killed her.”

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. He didn’t like my train of thought, that was for sure. Maybe I was dead-on, or maybe I was just a little close for comfort. Whatever the case, it was obvious he had killed her. He was acting damn jittery, and he had already lied to me.

  “This is all conjecture,” he fumbled out. “None of it’s true.”

  “People saw you two in the same bar the night she died.”

  He frowned. “There were lots of people in the bar that night.”

  “Flemming questioned you about her. You said you’d never met her.”

  “That’s true!”

  “Lie. It escaped his notice. Mine too, for a bit. But security arrested both of you, the same night on Mars, three years ago.” I stood. “There’s the connection, Sirius. You lied about knowing her. It tells me you killed the girl, here on Mercury.”

  His eyes were frantic. Pleading. “Just because I say we never met?”

  I shrugged. “Sure. You lie about that, you lie about other things, right?”

  His eyes fixed to mine for a long moment, and then his expression abruptly sagged. “All right, all right. Look, sure, we met. But it was just for a minute or two. We chatted in the brig, on Mars, like you said. But that was it—nothing else happened!”

  He’d broken, just like that. Too easy.

  “You killed Flemming when you realized he might connect the two of you.”

  “No way,” he protested again. But he wasn’t as fervent as he had been a minute earlier.

  I leaned forward and stuck my nose right in his face. “Got ya,” I whispered. “The penalty is execution.” I grabbed the stool and marched to the hatch. The guard stepped aside. He was glaring at Sirius, his distaste clear. He knew the man was guilty of murdering his comrade. Even though Flemming had been an officer and he a lowly grunt, he knew he had to enforce the line that connected us all. Otherwise the civil disorder that lurked just below the surface would emerge with a vengeance.

  When I stepped through the hatch, I knew what would happen in that cell. So did Sirius—he had the sad look of a beaten animal.

  “Think of Flemming when you die,” I said as a parting shot.

  I heard him whisper something under his breath, too quiet to make out.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  He dissolved into tears. “I’m sick,” he managed between sobs. “I need help.”

  Despite myself, I swallowed a lump in my throat. I didn’t want to see my captures act like...like...

  I shoved the thought aside as quickly as it had come.

  I left the room and didn’t look back.

  * * *

  I stalked through CCF headquarters, oblivious to the stares that followed me. I marched past black uniform after black uniform without seeing them. I could hear their muttered comments. They knew who I was. I had heard it all before.

  A seeming eternity later, the exterior hatch slid aside, and I thrust myself out into the dark tunnel.

  My heart pounded.

  I couldn’t help blaming myself. Had I put the pieces together sooner, had I read the facts correctly the first time, Flemming and I could have issued the capture warrant two days earlier. What had happened to me? Why hadn’t I seen it?

  Why had I failed Flemming?

  * * *

  Ten minutes after I left CCF HQ, I received a page on my reader. I reluctantly moved to answer it. “Damn,” I muttered. No rest for the weary. I wouldn’t even get a day to relax before the next job. I hit the receive button. “Kyle Tanner.”

  “Tanner, how’d it go? Did you get that little punk?” It was Lieutenant Commander Bryce Manning, head of CCF Security Division on Mercury. That placed all military police and nearby off-planet investigators under his direct authority. His face looked up at me from the tiny screen.

  “I got him. He’s in custody. And you already know that or you wouldn’t be calling.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” He paused. “Listen, I just got a call from Earth. They want you for a job.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “They asked specifically for me?”

  “Your reputation, obviously.”

  “Doubtful.”

  He snorted. “Listen, even I’d heard of you before you got here. You’re uncanny.”

  Not all the time, I wanted to say. “What is it?”

  “Not quite sure. They’ve asked me to send you to a place called SOLEX One Command Group. I’ve got the directions, and it’s here on Mercury. Swing by my office and I’ll—”

  “What is SOLEX? A ship?” He didn’t respond. “Who exactly called you?”

  He cleared his throat and looked off camera for a moment. “Someone high up. That’s all I can say right now. Come on over and I’ll fill in the details.”

  The screen went blank.

  Shit. Another mystery, which meant another murder. One day it would get to be just too much for me, and I’d quit this damn job.

  It was too bad so many people thought I was so good at it.

  Chapter Two

  Bryce Manning was my contact on Mercury. He dispatched the homicide investigators in this sector of space and sometimes, in exceptional cases, sent them as far away as the outer reaches, even beyond the Kuiper Belt. Out in deep space, however, shipboard military personnel and local colonial governments took care of their own problems—under the laws of the Confederacy, of course.

  I had been all over the system. I wish I could say I’d seen the sights on Neptune, investigat
ed Valles Marineris on Mars and gone orbit diving on Venus, but I couldn’t.

  On Neptune Three I had investigated the death of a wealthy widow. Her brother had cut her into pieces and mailed them all over the system.

  On Mars I had looked into the death of a CCF captain who had disappeared while on leave. A prostitute had killed him in a jealous rage and left his body on the surface in a tattered vacsuit with a shattered visor.

  On Venus I had captured a serial murderer hunted for years. It was my most famous catch. The guy, nicknamed the Torcher—or torture, a play on words the media had thought was pretty clever—had burned each of his victims for twenty-three minutes. All seventeen cases. No one knew why; crazy people don’t often make sense, and I didn’t much care. I caught the guy, brought him in, and seven days after his speedy trial he was just a bad memory.

  They execute the vast majority of the killers I capture. That’s just the way it is; I don’t give much thought to it. The evidence is usually hard to come by, but once I’ve found it, there’s no arguing their way out of it. They’re all guilty, every last one.

  Some people might think hunting killers is a glamorous occupation. Me, I just think of it as a job. I do it well and I derive satisfaction from it, but I’m no different from the guy who maintains the hyperspace engines on a colony ship, or the guy who shovels shit on a pig farm in Utah. It’s all the same.

  I moved my hand over the scar on my left thigh, a memento the Torcher had left for me during his difficult capture. I’d kept it as a reminder of how dangerous the job could be. A warning to never let down my guard.

  I jumped a high-speed railcar, sat wearily and thought about Quint Sirius. I should have at least roughed him up. Maybe even killed him myself.

  But that just wasn’t my way. The guard had probably had some fun, and then later the proper authorities would execute him. But it wouldn’t be vigilantism; it would be after a trial and a review of Flemming’s file.

  There wasn’t a lot to see as I rode the track through Mercurian rock. It was all dull, lifeless tunnels with veins of iron, nickel and copper lacing the smooth surfaces. The station where I exited was just as bad: a long, barren, featureless cave where passengers could board and disembark from the vehicle. I shook my head. Mercury.