“Sorry the
wait has been so long, want something to eat,” an officer with a freshly shaved
bald head asks.
“No
thanks.”
“What about
some medigel for the bruise on your head.”
“I’d like
it to be visible in my eventual mugshot. Might be useful in helping the jury
understand I was framed.”
The officer
exits and I place my head on the table in an attempt to get some rest.
According to the clock on the wall I’ve been here for four hours, and nobody
has come to talk with me. The food is a nice offer, but I’m not interested.
I’ve seen enough documentaries to know they’ll just want me to confess or inform
them about some other crime, and I don’t know any other crimes. I didn’t even
commit a crime. That was self-defense for myself and everyone else in the bar.
They don’t have a case, they wouldn’t have brought me here if they did. They’re
just hoping I crack. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I’ve slept, but
I’ve gone through sleep deprived deployments before. This, it’s nothing. I’m
not above being tricked, or conned; I’m also not their average suspect.
“Sorry for
the wait Mr. Gray,” a large man sporting fading brown hair and long beard enters.
“It was
nothing,” I smile at him.
“Oh, but
any wait is far too long,” he smiles back.
I lift my
head and sit up as straight as I can. They’ve removed my prosthetic and my left
hand is secured in one of the padded restraints on the table so there isn’t
much balance to my straight posture. In contrast, he’s slouched over with
crumbs in his beard from a recent meal. He’s completely relaxed for this,
probably done it a few thousand times. I didn’t notice at first, but the ends
of his beard are starting to turn grey like his hair. If he was in the military
he’d be looking towards retirement or a comfortable desk job, but I’ve heard
civilians tend to work for a lot longer.
Do I plan
on going back? I hadn’t thought about it, but lately, I’ve been feeling the
itch. The adrenaline is feeling good again. I obviously still have the same skills
and I’m referring to people as civilians, as if I’m not one. Would this prevent
me from going back?
“Are you
listening Mr. Gray,” the officer asks.
“I’m sorry,
I didn’t catch your name.”
“Detective
Burn.”
“Great, I’m
Efrem Gray. I’d shake your hand, but they took mine.”
“Don’t
worry, I’m sure you’ve still got a leg up on the competition,” he’s playing
good cop.
“When am I
free to go?”
“Unfortunately,
I think you’ll be with us for a while.”
“On what
charges?”
“Murder.”
“Who did I
kill?”
“Cade
Duke.”
“Never
heard of him.”
“The man
you shot outside the bar.”
“I didn’t
shoot anyone. But, it looked like he had a non-fatal wound from what I saw when
I was being dragged through the crowd like a prize and man handled by a rookie
cop looking for glory. That is if you’re talking about the guy on the ground
clutching his knee.”
“Yeah,
that’s the one,” Detective Burn chuckles. “You’re a funny guy. They don’t like
funny guys in jail.”
“Good thing
I’m not going to jail.”
“Jail is
where murders go.”
“Did you
see me murder anyone?”
I keep
thinking they’ve got something on me. Camera footage from the bar, random
footage from surrounding buildings. They haven’t even mentioned the gun yet.
Perhaps the Enka got rid of it. I didn’t have any reason to trust them with
that gun, but I’m glad I did. If the officers had a gun, they’d just put it on
the table and tell me I was going to jail, but they’ve got nothing. Luck,
destiny, maybe even fate, something is watching over me for once in my life.
“We found
your gun,” never mind, they have it.
“I don’t
have a gun,” denying everything is the only way left to go.
“It’s got
your prints all over it.”
“I highly
doubt that.
“You
haven’t shown me the gun yet.”
“It’s in
the lab, they should be finished with it soon.”
“Great,
then you can see my prints don’t match and you can let me go. Do you want to
take some new ones or do you want to pull them from the military registry?”
He’s lying,
a good liar, but a liar. I’m not some super soldier with the power to read
minds or anything like that. I just know I’m right-handed, and only touched the
gun with my right hand and since that’s metallic, it won’t leave any prints.
He’s just talking, I’m seriously doubting the Enka even gave him the gun at
this point.
“I hate
guys like you,” Burn’s tone changes significantly.
“You don’t
know me.”
“I know a
thousand guys like you. Do a little military time, and think you’ve got a
license to do whatever you want when you come back to regular society. Guys
like you are a menace to society. I saw the flag on your file, you got stopped
arriving on the planet. We got you on camera at the scene of another murder. If
you’re not a killer you know who is.”
I know he
doesn’t have anything on me, but I let his words float around in the moment
before I speak again. It’ll make him feel good if he thinks I’m considering his
words. I’m sure he just wants to solve another shooting, because it’s not a
murder. Unless Duck or whatever his name is just blew up from a leg shot he’ll
be good. If I wanted to kill him, I could have done it when he friend left him,
but I didn’t.
“So, do you
have anything on me, or am I free to go?”
“You’re
free,” Burns waves his hand over my restraint and it releases me. “Out the door
to the left, they’ll have your arm. Meet me out front if you want a ride to
your hotel,” he sounds defeated, but not disappointed.
Walking
through the station is a little surreal. Nobody seems busy, but everyone is
darting back and forth between different points. A handwave here, a few
keystrokes there, maybe some quick conversation between points. I’m pretty sure
I took wrong turn when the wall color changes from dusty brown to a faded
yellow. A small room with a few desks and people without uniforms walking
around. This might be where the detectives, do detective work. I really need to
go sleep.
“I said to
the left,” Burns puts a hand on my right shoulder and quickly removes it.
“It’s
mostly just metal in there now, it doesn’t hurt.”
“Let’s get
your arm and get you out of here.”
A cup of
coffee later and I’m sitting in the front seat of Burns’ unmarked car. It's
more comfortable than I expected and he’s not opposed to using climate control
inside like the officer last night. I know he’s trying to soften me up, maybe
see if I’ll let something slip on the way back, so I listen to everything he
says carefully, never revealing too much about myself. He spends most of the
drive telling me why he became a police officer, and why he hates it. He
thought he’d be helping people or running into gun fights, but he never had a
gunfight and feels he never sees anyone get help. I try to console him, let him
know I thought I was going to be a great explorer in the military who did
missions like some battle-hardened secret agent. It didn’t work out, and the black
ops missions I took part in were all just secret murders and flamboyant
assassinations.
“Can I
offer you one piece of advice,” he asks as the car settles on solid ground.
“Actually two.”
“If I can
ask you a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Is Duck
dead.”
“Who’s
Duck?”
“The guy,”
I pause. “The murdered guy who was shot at the bar.”
“Nah,” he
laughs. “That bastard is cuffed to a hospital bed somewhere. He had warrants. I
don’t even remember what his real name was,” the two of us laugh together. “He
probably deserved it.”
“I heard he
was hypothetically shooting up a bar full of mourning Enka.”
“Might have
some information on the murder I’m looking into. Thanks for the tip, people
from Mars don’t like talking to police officers.”
“So, what’s
your advice?”
“One, keep
your nose clean. Two, get off Mars as soon as you can. This place traps people
and slowly kills them. Any big ideas you had when you touched ground on this
planet, will die here.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be in
contact if we have more questions about the shooting.”
“Somehow I
get the feeling you already know the answer to any questions you might have.”
“You’re
right. Leave Mars as soon as you can Mr. Gray.”
In my hotel
room the last 36 or so hours feel a lot different in my mind. There’s no more
adrenaline pumping through my veins. I was in a shootout, with a stolen gun. A
stolen gun that I passed off to a random Enka because we shared some wine. Some
wine shared because a hate crime was committed not too long ago in the lobby of
this same hotel. I’ve been held and interrogated at a police station and I rode
home with police officer who still seemed like he was trying to get me to
confess.
There is
nothing good about life on Mars and I understand why nobody wants to have
children here and so many people find ways to flee. You have to be a special
kind of individual to call Mars a happy home. The one bright spot about this
trip, I spoke to my little brother. It might be time for me to go home.
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