Subject: Inertia
Date: 1/12/2382
Location: Manchester Park, Kingstown,
New Sahara, Mars
Weston looked out of The End’s canopy at the vast stretches of savannah streaking past beneath. There was very little to go on with the King case, and he had read, reread, and annotated his hard copy the night before. Most of it smelled just rotten enough to give him suspicions that the conclusions drawn by the local law enforcement were either grossly incompetent – at best – or covering for whatever had really happened – at worst. He supposed an alternate scenario could be that they simply wanted the case ‘solved’ neatly so it could be closed and forgotten about. Given his available resources and intelligence, however, he was limited in the conclusions he could come to now until he had visited the actual crime scene and talked to the people connected to the investigation and the house.
The End shot past the final spur of a mountain range of impressive height, and suddenly, there it was, leering over Mars’ horizon like an evil genius gloating over its good work. Weston had only seen The Traveller a handful of times, and the primal majesty of the jungle-covered wanderer never ceased to send a chill through him. If its proximity could make a lifeless rock like Mars into a habitable second option for mankind, what must being on its surface be like?
“Want to visit?”
“My thoughts exactly. Make sure we’re cleared under our cover as agents of Sancta Terra Security. I don’t want to have to sneak around, and it will save Mother bothering me with a call to check in.”
“I’m sure that will become a necessity one day,” Weston laughed. “For now, though, let’s concentrate on our mystery man. Besides, the police presence there is a temporary investigation base, they don’t have aerial defences for you to show off against.”
“There’s a bit of that in high society,” Weston agreed, “but the Kings are different. They’re an old family. I think a murder for that reason would be less … ostentatious. Old families aren’t really in the business of drawing attention to themselves from outsiders.”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Yes, please. Let’s see what sort of massacre the local enforcers have done to the scene.”
There was little to hide their entry in skies like these, and they sped across sprawling plains of shining white frequently broken up by drifts of red sand. It was the grass at the beginning of the dry season that shimmered almost like white gold beneath the sun, contrasting vividly against the red sands. There were stands of gangly trees with charcoal-coloured bark and enough green in their leaves to indicate there was some underground water for them to survive the end of the rains. On the horizon, some great columns of rock reached for the heavens like immense fingers pushing up through the planet’s crust.
A flash of vibrant green appeared and rapidly grew as The End screamed across the savannah and slowed her approach while banking wide around an estate of significant sprawl. The house at its centre was only single-story, but had as many wings and interior courtyards as some of the wealthiest homeowners on Zenith. Weston grimly assessed that it must take longer than it was worth to walk from one end of the house to another, and surely some of the furthest wings were meant purely for servant use. There was a single road that led up to the house through impressive front gates, which then divided so a secondary drive could service a small courtyard clearly intended for household deliveries. The flashing lights of law enforcement indicated a checkpoint at the gate, while an operating base had been set up in proximity to the house itself.
“Humour them,” Weston laughed. “Please don’t blow any dust into their equipment. I would like them onside as long as possible!”
“One never knows,” Weston admonished her with good humour. “Best not to burn bridges when you don’t know if you’ll need them or not.”
The End behaved and landed an appropriate distance from the obstinate-looking local enforcement with only a token flaring of her engines. Weston advised her of his gratitude with a dash of dry sincerity before affixing his earpiece and exiting the ship. Paranoia was far too young in appearance to be convincing in any role, so he had left her watching his family.
“Sancta Terra,” nodded the senior officer by way of greeting, his lips pursed and eyes suspicious. He was an older fellow with silver hair and a jaw like rock.
“Special Agent DuPont,” Weston corrected without hostility. “Apologies for bringing the gaze of The City to this quiet nook.”
“It was inevitable,” groused the officer. “Not your fault. Samuel King has dragged us all into this to provide answers for people who care more about where he is than what he’s done.” He bristled at the insidious ‘Them’ he was referring to. “Where are my manners? Senior Sheriff Yul. Can I ask after your objectives? It will help me ensure you get what you need.”
“As you said,” Weston shrugged, “I’m here to provide answers to people who don’t care that a crime was committed, only that one of theirs is missing. I am predominantly interested in the whereabouts of Samuel King. Any leads you have on that matter will be appreciated, along with any insights into motive, as that might tell me how desperate he is or is not at this point.”
“He hasn’t set off any checkpoints, so he must still be in the area. Probably lying low in Red Ridge, some ten kays over towards the bloody big rocks over there. We’re just too isolated for anyone to do something like this and hope to escape. We have checked and rechecked both records and footage from both freight and passenger ports in town, and he is nowhere to be seen.”
“So he’s either here somewhere,” mused Weston, “or …” He looked up to the horizon, where The Traveller was slowly sinking down out of sight, as if mocking him.
“Special Agent?”
“There’s two ways he could get off-planet without leaving any records … one would involve him getting insanely lucky and finding freelancers willing to land in unsanctioned sectors to take him aboard with no witnesses. But they would be running a foolish risk to their own reputation to do that.”
“No one lands in unsanctioned land here,” Yul agreed. “The proximity of the Kings means we keep very close tabs on that, and they funded our aerial surveillance department generously.” The officer cocked his head, curious. “What’s the other way?”
“Are you familiar with the Orphan Legion?” asked Weston.
“Of course. It is essentially a penal arm of the military to make criminals as useful to society as possible. How does that apply if King hasn’t even been caught?”
“He’s a military man. He would know exactly where to go to apply directly … and once you apply and sign yourself over, there are no accessible records of you having joined. You become someone else, no questions asked.”
“That sounds unethical and grossly subversive to justice,” snapped Yul.
“A lot of criminals think so, too, until they get shipped off to a barracks on The Traveller and realise they’re never coming back,” Weston agreed with a chuckle.
“Then why would King do such a thing?”
Weston nodded. “Why indeed … he’s far more intelligent than the average criminal looking to stay alive at all costs. His own version of penance after snapping uncharacteristically? Or does he think he has what it takes to escape from there?” Both men thought in a mutual silence for a moment before Weston spoke again. “What can you tell me about the circumstances surrounding the murders?”
Yul gestured with his blocky chin. “Come, I’ll show you the murder scene.”
The two men walked side by side across a wide driveway crazy-paved in some sort of stone native to Mars and up the wide steps that serviced the imposing main entrance to the house. This was where the house was at its tallest, to allow for impressively monolithic double doors and a high-ceilinged greeting hall that echoed with their tread on the vast expanse of marble tiles.
“Positively Spartan by the standards of The City,” Weston mused with intrigue.
“The Kings certainly live big in comparison to their surroundings, but I always got the impression that they had enough land to maintain their privacy, and a house only big enough to provide board to the house and grounds staff.” Yul pointed down a corridor that jutted off the entrance hall to the left. “That’s the family’s quarters down there. Dining room, three bedrooms, a couple of recreational rooms and a study, two bathrooms. That’s their space. Everything else is staff or guest lodging and storage for the groundskeeping equipment.” There was a grudging admiration in his voice.
“Seems more like a holiday shack than a family home for one of the most influential men in the System,” Weston said with raised eyebrow. “Not exactly an empire to kill for.”
“If it was, the King boy went about it the wrong anyway,” Yul snorted. “You don’t kill your family and leg it if you’re hoping to inherit the estate.”
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“What are the staff alibis and statements? Do you have transcripts?”
“Of course, but there weren’t many around at the time, and none saw what happened firsthand. The only ones on duty were killed at the scene.”
“That wasn’t in the report I received,” Weston frowned.
“The initial report was a summary of key events made in the immediate aftermath of the event. And besides,” Yul continued darkly, “a few dead servants are of no interest to Zenith.”
“Fair,” said Weston grimly. “Who was on duty?”
“One maid and the chef. They were found in the kitchen. Most likely the first victims to ensure no one walked in while the crime was underway.”
Weston nodded pensively.
“Only the groundskeeper had any insights. He was on good terms with Samuel King. The staff even maintain they were good friends and would often fish together when King was home on leave. In the absence of immediate family, he has been named caretaker of the estate by the younger brother of the deceased, Harrison King.’
“I would very much like to meet him if possible,” Weston said. “Any insights into Samuel’s character will be helpful, and I would like to float my Penal Legion theory past him, too.”
“I’ll have him meet us in the dining room,” Yul nodded before issuing a curt order into his com.
“Excellent,” Weston nodded. He had missed the tension of having to sift through a steady influx of new information and craft something useful out of it. He plunged his hands resolutely into his pockets in anticipation of the hunt he had embarked on, and sauntered after Yul as the officer wordlessly led the way to the dining room.
There was no denying that the King home was lavishly furnished, but everything was tasteful and well-coordinated. The furniture and ornaments all looked valuable, but also as if they had been in the family for generations. The hallway to the dining room was lined with portraits of passed family, all of whom stared down at the passersby with severely judging countenances. At the end, in their rightful place, was the portrait of the late King family. It was perhaps five or so years old by Weston's estimation, and silently told the tragedy of the Kings; a family who had first lost their decorated firstborn daughter when the destroyer she was stationed on suffered a catastrophic hull penetration while in orbit about The Traveller. Now, the rest of her family had followed her.
From left to right: Danielle King, Phillip King, Elisabeth King, Samuel King, Natalie King
AI-rendering of original characters and narrative by T. Sharp
“The Kings moved to Mars early on, didn’t they?” Weston mused.
“Yes,” Yul nodded. “Phillip King’s grandfather worked this land as one of the early settlers who were incentivised to move here. They kept sheep and successfully grew cotton on this same estate. I believe the ruins of the original homestead are still standing somewhere closer to the creek. King’s father was the first to go into the navy and had a good degree of local success while outsourcing the care of his grounds to local stockmen and farmers. They’re as local as even the most hardened of Kingstown or Red Ridge’s citizens. Obviously, Kingstown is the newer of the settlements in this area, and named after the family that funded much of its development. They’re practically nobility in the eyes of New Saharan citizens, and generally seen very favourably because of how much work they provide.”
“I’m having a hard time buying Samuel King as the culprit, if I’m being honest,” Weston said bluntly as they entered the dining room.
He appraised his new surroundings, gratefully noting that the dining room had been undisturbed in the wake of the crime. The ornate chair at the head of the table had been turned over, presumably when Phillip leaped up in response to the first blow being delivered. It had been fatal however, and the first responders had found him collapsed on his face only a few steps from his seat, with a single stab wound to his throat. With something resembling a deep sadness, he moved closer to confirm the report and pictures he had poured over on the journey. There, superimposed over the outline of where Phillip King had fallen, was the outline of Elizabeth King, where she had rushed to her husband’s side despite that sending her into the proximity of the attacker.
“The System has lost a valuable family,” he murmured to himself, unable to look away from the mental image of the husband and wife together in death. Is this what will become of Caroline and I? If the wrong people want you dead in this society … what can you do except die?
“Yes,” Yul said bluntly. “I agree.”
“And no word of the whereabouts of Natalie King?”
“Even less to go on than Samuel’s disappearance,” Yul said grimly.
“Sixteen-years old,” Weston remembered sombrely. “Surely she’s too valuable as a ransom to just traffic away into the darkness …” He sighed.
“That was my thought,” Yul nodded. “But this is Mars. There are all sorts of freighters here. Most have the basic reasoning to understand her worth … but there are still the Mist-heads and synth-addicts who would … well …” Yul fell silent. He clearly did not want to think too much about it.
“I suppose it depends mostly on the motivations of the killers,” mused Weston. “Did they want her dead or alive? And if alive, for what purpose?” He grimaced. And yet … Mother doesn’t want any of these questions answered. She just wants to know where Samuel is for some reason. No priority on who actually committed the deed … just … where is Samuel King?
“What if Samuel King has been taken as well?” asked Yul then. “What if the motive was to take the King children?”
“Plausible,” Weston nodded. “Especially given we can’t trace either of their whereabouts at the moment. What’s security coverage like in Kingstown and Red Ridge?”
“Common,” Yul assured him. “Especially around the shipyards. I already have people on that.”
“Let me make a call and see if I can fast-track that a little,” Weston smiled tightly. “Any word on the groundskeeper’s whereabouts?”
“I’ll check while you make your call,” Yul nodded firmly.
“Sounds good.” He turned away and murmured into his com. “Call The End.”
“I need a confirmation of enlistment into the Penal Legion,” Weston said. “Samuel King.”
“Back door. Show me what you can do. They’re not likely to reveal the enlistment of such a high-profile fugitive without days of jumping through hoops anyway.”
Weston waited patiently, a talent that had got him what he wanted on numerous occasions.
“More and more curious,” Weston murmured to himself. “Has he shipped out yet?”
“No wonder their fatality rates are so high,” snorted Weston. “They don’t even go through boot camp. Just more bodies into the grinder, regardless of their fitness.”
“That’s what it sounds like,” Weston agreed.
“That remains to be seen. I have someone to chat with here first, then I’ll send a selection of what we know across to Mother. We’ll see what she wants us to do.”
“You already know me so well,” Weston doted with mock fondness.
The line went dead and Weston chuckled to himself as he turned his attention to Yul once more.
“Groundskeeper’s on his way now,” Yul nodded curtly. “Steven James. Do you need me to do anything else for you?”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Weston said. “Thank you. I’ll touch base if I hear anything regarding Samuel King.”
Yul nodded respectfully before turning on his heel and marching smartly back down the hall of portraits. With the dining room to himself at last, Weston turned slowly to study the scene. The notes he had received alleged Phillip King to be the first casualty, and most likely taken by surprise. Elizabeth King had then dashed to his side, evident by her chair having been knocked over backwards in her rush. The fact that Phillip’s killer had likely still been standing over him had clearly not given her any pause.
So she died holding him, Weston mused, wondering why that was affecting him so deeply. It was now the third time he had articulated that to himself, including the first time he read it in the case notes. Either she was incredibly brave, blinded by grief, or perhaps even thought herself safe. Which might be the case if the killer was her son … still, I’m not liking Samuel for this. I should stop that line of thinking. I wasn’t asked to find out who did it. Just where he is.
But even that command sat nauseatingly in his stomach. It was a backhanded reminder that Mother didn’t really care about justice or protection. She cared about her own needs and wants, and the more power she had, the safer she felt.
Did I ever really believe she wanted to change the System? Weston wondered morosely. I’d like to think not … but that just makes my capitulation worse. Now I’m stuck in a position where I either do what I’m told or paint a target on my back for the whole bloody System.
The faintest of footsteps entered the dining room and Weston turned slowly to give his attention to the new arrival. The movement was a perfect blend of polite acknowledgment and busy reluctance.
A young man of around Weston’s age had entered, dressed smartly in slacks, shirt and waistcoat. His turquoise shirt’s sleeves were rolled up above the elbow to display strong, but not excessively muscled, forearms, and his straw-blonde hair was combed neatly. Overall, Weston found him to be oddly well-presented for a groundskeeper.
Someone moved into their role of caretaker of estate seamlessly, Weston thought with grim amusement. I wonder who he knows?
“Special Agent Weston DuPont,” he said, introducing himself. “Sancta Terra Security.”
“A pleasure, Special Agent,” replied the handsome lad. “Steven James, grounds …” He faltered, and he had the decency to look awkward at last. “Caretaker of Manchester Park,” he amended. “Doesn’t quite feel real yet.”
“How long has it been by Mars time?” Weston probed gently, reserving his judgment for the time being.
“A little over three weeks,” James replied, looking surprised at that realisation. He gestured to his attire. “I’d just been given this by Mr. King so that I would have something suitable to attend Miss King’s Presentation. Honestly, I thought I would have been kicked out with the rest of the staff, but Mr. King’s brother has been as generous as his older brother, and kept everyone on for the time being.”
“That is a generous commitment,” Weston agreed. He found it very curious that his mental questions had been answered so voluntarily and concisely. The truth? Or a conman pre-empting assumptions and questions?
“Sancta Terra must have many questions about the death of such a high-ranking officer,” James nodded sadly.
“I already have access to your original statement, so I’ll keep this short,” Weston assured him. “I am more concerned with Samuel King’s location than his guilt at this point. I was wondering if you had any theories as to his whereabouts?”
“I’m at a loss,” James admitted, seemingly disappointed with himself. “There are plenty of nooks on the property, but the local enforcement have turned the whole estate upside down. It seems impossible that he has just disappeared.”
“And his sister, Natalie?”
“Equally as baffling, Special Agent,” James said, mystified. “She’s just a child, and certainly not experienced in being out on her own!”
“Are you aware that, as it stands, Samuel King is the primary suspect in the murders?”
“I suppose it’s logical,” James said sadly. “What if he is simply another victim, though?”
“That is someone else’s job to ascertain. What I am wondering is what cause he might have had to kill his parents and, potentially, his little sister.”
“None that come to mind,” James said resolutely. “There was some tension between father and son, but that isn’t uncommon. Practically protocol, in fact, in a military family. Phillip King was a hard, but fair, man. Physical discipline was not out of the question growing up, but I feel as if Samuel had matured to a place of appreciating that.”
“And was Natalie … physically disciplined?” asked Weston curiously. Is that the snapping point? And then another thought occurred to him. Or was I just baited into making that connection?
“No more or less than Samuel was,” James claimed. “He wasn’t happy about it, but he was objective about his own doting on his little sister, and I think he understood that getting in the way might do more harm than good.”
Interesting, thought Weston, thoroughly intrigued. “Did Samuel have any close friends he might go to for help?”
“I was his closest friend,” James shrugged sadly. “He just disappeared without a word. That stings more than I thought it might.”
Hmmm, thought Weston sceptically. It’s been too long since I came across someone genuinely innocent … my default is just to assume people are hiding something. Am I too suspicious of this man? Does a groundskeeper have the resources or ambition to be the mastermind behind something like this? He would need some serious backing. I’d better do some digging on his background just to be sure.
“Thank you, Mr. James,” Weston nodded courteously, inclining his body in a tacit dismissal. “You have been very helpful. I hope I can lay this matter to rest quickly for all involved.”
James nodded respectfully. “Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to help,” he murmured.
Leaving the dining hall with purposeful strides, Weston headed for the living quarters. He was not quite done here yet.
I need to get to know these people a little better … especially the ones who may be still alive. I need to see the personal chambers of Samuel and Natalie King.