Cast Into New Eden

By Michael Pless

Detective Inspector Steve Wilson is dragged from sleep early one morning by an insistent alarm. He checks his slate and finds it is a notification of murder and a plea for help. He sees that the alert comes direct from the colony on the planet of New Eden, over twenty light-years distant.

Solace Conlon, a geologist with the first wave of colonists is dead. The message is signed by the leader of the colonists on the second ship to arrive at the planet.

An irate and publicity-sensitive executive backs up the notification with a demand that Wilson, in his capacity as chief investigator for the Federation of Spacefaring Nations solve the case immediately, if not sooner.

Mystery builds when further contact with the sender results in a denial that the death is anything but a tragic accident, and the sender claims to have no knowledge of the earlier allegation.

When the story breaks to the news media, the Federation has a sole solution: Steve Wilson is to pack a bag and make the trip to New Eden and find out what exactly is going on. Though terrified at being the first to travel by the Federation's new and experimental method, Steve nevertheless goes, unsure if he'll ever arrive. But arrive he does.

Once on New Eden, Steve discovers that science isn't all about noble pursuits. The two sets of colonists are divided and feuding openly while most are still in hibernation due to dwindling supplies of food. He learns that the progress in establishing a viable, self-sustaining colony is basically stalled and the settlers are driven to conduct research, research, and ever more exotic research.

But Steve establishes that Solace Conlon was murdered so commences his hunt for her killer. The trail leads to an isolated part of the planet. Steve resolves to make the trip together with the lovely Saira Ranieri who had been assisting him. His explorations lead to a shocking discovery that sees them both fighting for their lives against relentless foes.

Rich with engaging prose and quirky characters that it seems science alone can provide, this story is one of mystery and adventure spiced with romance as Steve finally reopens his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Pless
• Release date: Aug 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311928382

Michael Pless

Michael Pless is a happily-married father of two. He has held a variety of jobs over the years, starting at a garage whilst still in high school. He then served as an apprentice optical craftsman before commencing studies in chemistry and biochemistry, earning a Degree of Bachelor of Applied Science at Swinburne Institute of Technology. This led to a career as a forensic scientist. He left this career to help raise his two lovely daughters.During his time he has studied computer simulation and programming, and completed the requirement for a Diploma of Media Studies. With only small publishing success (and barely any more submissions), he ceased writing for a while, but has returned and this is his first completed novel. He is working on a sequel.Currently, he writes and coaches archery part-time, sharing his efforts equally between the two.He lives in Melbourne, Australia. If you wish, you can find him on Facebook.

Book preview

Cast Into New Eden

Copyright 2010 by Michael Pless

Smashwords Edition

To my father. I miss him every day.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Steve Wilson's Big Trip

Chapter 2: Steve Arrives

Chapter 3: Steve Finds His Feet

Chapter 4: Meeting the Colonists, and Getting a Handle on Things

Chapter 5: A Brief Excursion

Chapter 6: The Investigation and the Exploration Continues

Chapter 7: Bad News

Chapter 8: Worse News

Chapter 9: Owusu’s Secret

Chapter 10: A Trip Delayed

Chapter 11: Steve Wilson’s Little Trip

Chapter 12: A Long Night

Chapter 13: One Last Thing To Do

Chapter 14: Magical Flight, Of Sorts

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter 1: Steve Wilson's Big Trip

Solace Conlon murdered. announces my slate, waking me. Then it chimes. After a brief pause, it repeats the subject line of what must be a longer message, the soothing, synthesized female voice sounding incongruous.

I’m in bed in my apartment, seventeen stories above the street of an inner Melbourne, western suburb. I lie there for a while, looking at my ceiling still gray in the dimness of just-beyond-dawn, blinking, scratching, rubbing at my eyes and of course, yawning. The chiming and message continue to repeat, but it’s very early and I need to be a little more awake before I can move. My day has started too early. Homicide detectives learn to adjust their lives to such alerts but there’s more to this. Part of my not quite roused mind is disturbed by something in the nature of the message.

The phrasing is nothing unusual, because dispatchers tend to change and they all like their own way of expressing themselves, plus their sense of humor often puts a different slant on things. Recently, someone was murdered in their bath and wasn’t discovered for over a fortnight. The announcement I received was of a tub of soup at the address. This message is relatively sane but still, a finger of unease pokes at my desire to rest each time I close my eyes again.

Morning light creeps around my gold-colored curtains. The broad window they cover is a couple of steps away from the end of my bed. The room is cold because the heating hasn’t switched on yet. It’s supposed to be my day off and I was planning to sleep for a good part of it, after being on raids three nights running. I stretch out my left arm to the empty side of the bed, feeling just a twinge of pain in my shoulder. Not so bad as yesterday, which I take as a good sign. I pull my arm back to my side. Then with my other arm and turning my whole body, I reach out to the small black plas cabinet next to my side of the bed, the bedclothes traveling with me. I grab my slate—it’s a rigid, rectangular wafer of black ceramic and electronics about the size of both my hands with the fingers outstretched. It has a screen on the front, and several cameras, microphones and light sources on the back and sides. It also allows me to connect direct to all manner of government information systems, and is essentially a portable forensic recording device. With a few scratches here and there on the back and the screen. It’s essential to my work. I tap the shutoff for the chime and in the silence, read the message twice, wondering about the sender, and how it got to me, because it didn’t come through the dispatcher:

Solace Conlon murdered. Investigation required. Killer still unknown. Case beyond our capacity to solve. Help needed urgently. Doctor Jedediah Owusu.

I’m still trying to get a handle on what’s different about this alert. I ponder the confusing message chime: it isn’t the one I’m used to hearing when mail or messages come through. Usually, I get the ponderous bongs of Big Ben. This time, I get the first four notes from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, repeated—dah-dah-dah-daaah. Perhaps as a prank, someone fiddled with my slate.

Plus I don’t know who Jedediah Owusu is. I can’t recall anyone I’ve worked with called Owusu, though the name tickles my memory. So I’ve heard it somewhere, but when or where, I don’t know just now. Perhaps he was on the news just recently? I know I haven’t heard of the victim, but that isn’t unusual. In fact it’s the norm. If there was any known connection between me and the victim, the dispatch system would have automatically diverted the request to somebody else. And I’d still be asleep.

Although there are rare times when work comes to my slate as a direct request, it never comes as a plea for help, like this one. When a case comes direct, it’s usually from an informer. When that happens, I copy the messages to my boss with Victoria Police. He prefers that I receive all my casework from him, and rightly so. Nothing wrong with following procedure. From time to time, at least. All that occurs to me right now is that some private citizen has managed to get a message to me, and at an unreasonable hour of the morning. On my day off.

Investigating murders isn’t an issue. I’ve investigated many and intend to continue doing so for some time, because a lot of people tell me I’m quite good at it, though I don’t particularly enjoy it any more because I’ve tired of seeing daily, the most despicable, reprehensible aspects of human behavior.

I call out for the lights to turn on and then yell, ‘Low’, to stop them coming on with full brightness. I swing my feet off the bed and find my woolen clog-type slippers and call out for some heating, then I yawn, for a very long time.

With the lights on now and a distant hum of heating fans, I scroll down to the rest of the message and find some illuminating information. It’s from the Federation of Spacefaring Nations.

About one hundred and thirty years ago, thirty or so countries banded together to form the Federation, to spread the costs of space exploration and development out a little and to also share in the expected wealth that the technology was to bring. To say nothing of the commercialization of their ventures and research. They managed to establish a small base on Mars but this failed to prosper and after about three years, it was wound up and everyone came home. Still, the Federation can list patents in propulsion technology, ceramics and plas and other materials, medicine, and nanotechnology amongst its assets.

The Federation at present still consumes more money than it makes, so needs funding from commercial enterprises and its supporting governments that are spread across most of Europe, the Russian countries, Japan and a handful of other Asian countries (but not China), The United States which pretty much controls the Federation, and of course, the Commonwealth (which kind of includes Australia, though we established ourselves as a republic ages ago).

That’s why the alert is different: it’s one I set a few years ago after winning the contract with the Federation’s Law Support Division. They’ve been paying me to stay on standby for most of the time excepting a couple of petty thefts in the first few months of my tenure. But now it seems they have something big for me to do. The message is copied from the CEO herself, in fact. Within the mail is a direction that I attend her office for a briefing as soon as possible. My Federation boss is Dave Ruben and both he and his counterpart in Victoria Police are on the ‘copy to’ list.

Dave’s a former member of the Metropolitan Police Force in England and is about thirty years older than me. Born in Manchester, he moved almost as quickly to the rank of Detective Inspector as I did, but he went on to more administrative roles while I remained at my current rank by choice. He retired here to Australia seven years ago with his wife, settling in the north. He was head-hunted by the Federation and they offered him a contract to supervise the LSD, obliging his wife and him to move further south to the Federation’s administrative headquarters in Melbourne. Dave’s job is part-time and mine is less than that, this being only the third time I’ve got a case. Seems to me like it’s going to be pretty big, though.

I have time for Dave: he stands by what he sees is right, and is rather good at negotiating the internal politics of the Federation. He seems to be a bit soft in meetings, but that’s just a sham. Unlike me, he does a lot of political maneuvering in the back rooms either before or after a meeting and usually gets his way. There’s a second message from Dave, confirming he’ll meet me at the CEO’s office and the time that I’m expected. Thankfully there’s just enough time for me to bathe, breakfast, and get there.

I get further explanation while I shave, my slate set to speak, and it reads me a few pages of a reference I found: the space probe Amundsen III discovered a planet around the middle of the twenty-first century while investigating a patch of space near Tau Ceti. The planet captured billions of imaginations and interests, because in many ways it was a near-twin of Earth. Originally given a string of letters and numbers to identify it, once photos came back as a result of a close fly-by, a media competition resulted in a name that, I think, is pretty bland as well as being a little ominous: New Eden. I reflect on the fate of the occupants of the original Eden.

The probe scans showed polar icecaps made of water, continents, seas, mountain ranges. Clouds, a breathable atmosphere, temperatures that were livable, too. Enthusiasm bloomed into elation following a landing by a sub-probe. Life was not only carbon-based but biochemically it seemed very similar to that of Earth. Pictures of plants and a glimpse of an unidentified, furry animal all but determined the planet’s fate: collectively, Earth said, It’s ours, now. At the time, there was a tacit assumption that no other life form (indigenous or otherwise) had already said much the same thing. Heedless of that possibility, the people of Earth decided to exercise their birthright and go there, to settle permanently, introducing civilization to its pristine beauty. The settlers were to make something out of its untamed wilderness as a high priority. More than likely, after they’ve built a concrete plant.

Nobody seemed to even consider the possibility that the probe might have landed in a form of nature reserve set up by the local population, and may only be a short distance from a major population center. But on the other hand, the probe’s scans didn’t show any signs of built structures or gathered populations anywhere on the planet. The Federation’s best guess is that it’s anywhere between twenty and fifty million years younger than Earth.

I get a bit more info on Jedediah Owusu: he’s the leader—or at least one of the leaders—of the colony on New Eden. The reference gives him the title of ‘Secondary Leader’ but doesn’t go into any explanation of that term, but I’ll get back to it at some stage. Solace Colon is a member of the first wave of colonists, a geologist. Or according to the message, she was. So, amongst other aspects of civilization, the colonists appear to have brought crime to New Eden.

And that’s why my slate chimed me from my sleep.

Then I recall where I heard the name Owusu: a communications link had recently been established with the colony and he was on the other end of the line, updating Earth about progress on New Eden.

I miss most of the news broadcasts because I usually get called to work once the sun goes down or is about to and I often end up working through the night. I was out apprehending a murderer when the comms link was announced a few weeks ago by what must have been a very proud Federation CEO, and I missed most of the media frenzy. Backtracking, I find that because of various advances in technology since the colonists left, there’s a few incompatibilities and the link works only by typing, which I feel is just a step or two ahead of tin cans connected by string. Still, I know the new technology has a lot of people at the Federation very excited and that it can possibly be used for more than communications. Transportation of objects both living and otherwise, for example, which sounds very clever though I guess is still some ways off. Given that neither the Federation nor the colonists expected to ever communicate with Earth again, other than by radio, which takes a couple of decades to travel each way, it’s little wonder the Federation is excited.

Dave sends me a synopsis of the communications with the colonists. I frown as I read them. After an initial report from Owusu which said colonization was proceeding as well as can be expected, although much work still needed to be done, there were no more messages for more than a week.

To me this seems quite extraordinary. If I had been out of touch with my home planet for decades—most of which was spent asleep—I’d be hungry for news. Ravenous, in fact. The comms link ought to be thick with chatter from all the colonists desperate to hear what’s happening on their home planet, and any relatives they might still have.

I listen to some more historical background information after my shower and while I eat breakfast. There isn’t much and I know most of it: first lot of colonists should have arrived at New Eden about four years ago on Columbus II; the second group arrived about two years after, despite leaving Earth some forty years later, both facts having been confirmed by Owusu. But thanks to more efficient drives, his was a much faster ship and nearly overtook the first.

In high school, a couple of decades ago, my class covered the planned colonization and my group created a digital model of Leviathan (the second ship) and we got a good mark for our work. We covered the environmental aspects of the planned colonization.

A number of self-interest groups were quite vocal about the program, claiming there ought to be all sorts of rules and restrictions on what could be done there, and one or two even proposed that nobody go there, and Earth’s overpopulation be damned. Many countries of the United Nations wanted to be included in any colonization plans, regardless of the resources they had to commit to such a project. A notable exception was China, which has had its own space program for a long time now and they were conspicuously quiet on the issue of conservation of New Eden and any planned settlements of it.

My slate continues to read out to me: the total number of colonists from both ships is 293 (292 now, I mumble into my muesli, a droplet of milk escaping but my tongue lashes it back inside my mouth before it passes my lower lip).

Then I summarize the communications information: initial contact made and brief update of ‘progress’, then nothing; after that surprising silence came the message informing Earth of Solace Colon’s ‘regrettable’ death; a week after that, Owusu is accusing someone of murder and I’m dragged out of bed on my day off to the CEO’s office, presumably for some form of briefing.

Not much for me to do, given how far away the source of the messages is. I think I’ll probably end up acting as a main communications point to this Owusu, and direct his actions from here. I ought to be able to link my slate to the the Federation’s comms center. so I won’t even have to leave my office at VicPol.

It seems all very straightforward to me.

It’s my first time in the CEO’s lair and as an office, it would make a very good apartment for me. It’s bigger for a start, with a large open space inside the double entrance doors that seems to be there just to give people something to walk through. It could easily take a full-size billiards table without any danger of a careless cue bumping on any of the pale wood shelves. Cupboards fitted with tarnished brass knobs and ornate exposed hinges line one wall. The panoramic window at the far end beyond the desk that is sideways to it, overlooks a small lake. I watch a duck paddle across it, her convoy of seven ducklings in line behind. There is also a separate room joined to this one by large doors that look to be made of real wood as well; those doors are closed so I can only guess that the adjoining room is probably the same size as this one. The ceiling betrays the age of the building: it is made up of long and narrow tiles supported by what look to be aluminum strips and the tiles are a white-painted substance that looks a bit like poorly-made cardboard sheets. These were common in office buildings in the late twentieth century, when the building was erected. Periodically, the tiles are absent, the void filled by old fluorescent light fittings now presumably fitted with more modern lamps.

Still, the rest of the room is quite opulent, and filled with antique furniture from the days when trees were plentiful enough and cheap enough to cut down and use for such things. I guess that the door behind the desk leads to a private bathroom and probably some hanging space for clothes too. No kitchen that I can see, though there is plenty of space for a galley style kitchen if those shelves near the entrance were removed. I could be comfortable here.

My Federation boss Dave and me walk towards the CEO’s desk—an antique monstrosity big enough to support a mattress with area to spare and decorated with curlicues and carvings and a green leather pad for a workspace. Her slate lies in the center. of the pad, propped up by a triangular plas stand that seems just a bit incongruous in this setting. She sits immobile as a lizard and watches us.

Against the wall behind her black leather chair, she has a tall grandfather clock, the brass disk of its pendulum visible through a beveled glass sheet in the door. The clock looks to be several hundred years old. The deep red case is made of wood, too. The pendulum oscillates in time to loud clicks from its mechanism. Those clicks would annoy me, each tick giving me a tic. There are more intricate carvings on the clock case, engravings on the brass face too. Our footfalls are near-silent because the deep green carpet with flecks of cream through it is thick and springy. Faint tracks remain from our footsteps, so there’s no need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs so we can find our way out. When we finally arrive at the CEO’s desk, she stands, grunts greetings, we shake hands (her grip is unexpectedly firm, but expectedly cold), and she waves us towards a couch just a short stroll away, on the other side of the room.

We sit around a low real teak table at least a century old. Dave is on my left, and we’re both facing her, looking up slightly because our chairs, though soft and comfortable, are lower than hers. I’m feeling a bit like a naughty schoolboy in the Principal’s office.

The CEO is a quite a bit older than me (I checked on my slate on the way over, her public pages indicate that she’s in her early fifties) though she looks younger, probably because she can afford frequent rejuv treatments. She also barely stands as tall as my shoulder, even in her high-heeled shiny black shoes. Her pale blond hair is cut in a bob style but it looks a bit brittle though, and judging by the color of the roots, gets dyed semi-regularly. Doctors are still working on perfecting the rejuv that does hair. I guess facial skin is the main money-earner. Hers seems to be smooth and blemish-free. Her navy blue suit has a tight skirt that reaches to her calves with little splits so each leg can actually move, I suppose. Such movements result in a rasping sound with each step she takes. Her jacket has two large round gold buttons in a shape reminiscent of a Celtic knot, only the top-most of which is keeping the front closed. Her blouse is a shade of off-white, buttoned to the neck and with a crimson tie-thing that looks a bit like an inverted ‘v’ attached to the top button. The tie is relatively narrow, barely as wide as my thumb and ending just short of the tips of her collar. Such ties were part of the VicPol women’s uniform some one hundred-and-fifty years back. But her blouse is a different shade of off-white to her makeup, and I presume this is deliberate. ‘Parchment’, perhaps describes her complexion best, though I think that without the makeup she’d look quite ruddy. There’s a dark shade of blue around her eyes and she’s got a deep red on her lips. Her expression is that of someone who spends a lot of time sucking lemons. She interrupts constantly, which gets me offside.

My boss says,We’ve got several possible scenarios—

Which is the most likely? demands the CEO.

Well, that either their communications equipment demonstrates sporadic unreliability or that the method itself—

The technical people say there’s nothing wrong. What else do you two have?

We don’t ‘have’ anything, I say. Other than a message alleging murder, and one informing us of Colon’s death.

That’s it? What’s your theory? Do you even have a theory?

No, I say, trying to sound both innocent and nonchalant, not easy to do with just one word.

The CEO glares at me. I hear my boss suck in a breath and hold it. It appears I wasn’t supposed to say anything, or at least such an antagonistic word as ‘no.’ Too bad. I have to tell the truth. A message was forwarded to my slate a couple of hours ago, one that contradicts an earlier message. No other information is in my possession.

The CEO sighs, my boss glances at me, gives a minute shake of his head, warning me to be a little more serious and respectful.

What do you think is the reason for that? the CEO asks me.

I don’t know.

You don’t know? What sort of detective are you? You come here without any theory whatsoever, and don’t seem to know what you’re going to do next! Have you even started an investigation? I need answers! The CEO’s voice has risen in pitch and volume during her little tirade.

Can’t give you any, I’m afraid. In my peripheral vision, I can see my boss beginning to perspire, the rim of his receding hairline glistening.

Then what use are you to me? And why are you even here? The CEO purses her lips, working her tongue around the inside of her mouth. Perhaps she’s trying to dislodge some bits of lemon pulp from between her latest set of teeth. She purses her lips, the upper showing a series of faint vertical lines.

I don’t know the answer to the former question either. As for the latter, you asked me to come.

I get a glare and a squint from her for that.

I summoned you here to get answers to my questions. The CEO emphasizes the word ‘summoned’. She likes power, this one.

I lean towards he, my hands ahead of me, showing her they’re empty. Again, I can’t give you any at this juncture. This time I emphasize my first word. If you’d sent your questions to me, I could have answered them just as easily from my office.

Well, if you can’t provide me with results, perhaps the Federation was wrong in contracting you.

I shrug. Maybe they were. Not my decision. I’m not—

Look, Wilson, if you can’t provide me with answers, perhaps I should discuss this with someone better qualified for this task.

I can tolerate tantrums in adults for only so long. Sure. Go for your life. Find someone else. Someone who has my record of success. Shouldn’t be hard to find someone else in Australia with nearly sixteen years of experience as a police detective and has never failed to secure a suspect and subsequent conviction. There should be lots who have commendations, awards for bravery, and who have been promoted to my rank of detective inspector faster than anyone in the history of Australia’s police forces—State and Federal—and has elected to remain at a particular rank because solving cases is something they do best. Shouldn’t be hard for you. But as far as I know I’m the only one who’s done all that. And then perhaps you can explain to the Board how they made such a mistake in offering me the contract.

The CEO leans forward, scowling. Okay. You think you’re God’s Gift to the police and the Federation. Tell me something about this case. Anything you might be able to suggest is happening.

I sigh. I got the message a couple of hours ago. I have no information on which to base a theory or hypothesis. Rather than attending to my duties like commencing the investigation, I’ve wasted time traveling across town to tell you something I could have put in the mail or told you via a call. Are you asking me to guess? I could guess that Owusu is engaging in some colossal practical joke. Or perhaps he’s the killer and his twisted mind is tormenting us, because he thinks he’s safe. Or—

—Don’t dick around with me, Wilson. I can terminate your contract now, if I feel like it.

Go on, then. I meet the CEO’s stare. Neither of us blinks for a long time.

I like the money I get from the Federation to basically be on standby until needed, then drop everything with VicPol and tidy up their little messes, but I don’t like this person, and I don’t like the way she speaks to me and Dave and seems to expect me to pull miracles out of nowhere.

I can feel my boss’s hand on my arm. Really, Karen, he says. Steve is such an irreverent joker. He seems to have quite taken us both by surprise with his unorthodox sense of humor, eh? It is very early in the investigation, and consequently I suggest we come back when we have something concrete to tell you.

The CEO stands, her stockings and skirt swishing as she does. She knows my boss is attempting to keep peace between herself and me, but because she realizes she’s been precipitate in this summons, won’t admit it. People at her level of any bureaucracy generally seem to be incapable of admitting any error. By all means, leave. If I want either of you back, I’ll call you. In the meantime, get me results. The CEO totters towards her desk on those heels, each step leaving deep indentations in the carpet the size of the nail on my little finger.

My boss is already on his feet, and his grasp on my arm invites me to do the same. So I do. For him.

Do you want progress reports? I ask.

The CEO whirls and scowls at me again. I want facts and results. And soon! Anything less is a waste of my time. Then she turns away and announces, In the meantime, I’ll look into whatever other options I have, given the tardy start to this investigation.

We’d have got a lot more done by now if we hadn’t had to race across Melb—

Yes. Very good, Karen. You’ll hear from us soon. Later today, I’m sure. My boss isn’t always like this. There must be something else in play. I’ll ask him later.

Dave and I are sitting in a little cafe within the Federation complex. I’m enjoying a thick and sweet Turkish coffee and a fresh yeast bun with currants in it and a sticky, translucent orange-colored glaze on top. Dave has his standard, unsweetened coffee, nothing to eat. The chairs are imitation bentwood and rickety, the tables also rickety and made of plas, the floor a checkerboard of scarred black and white vinyl tiles, but glistening and clean. There’s a scattering of other customers but we’ve chosen a location where there is nobody within easy listening distance. Thankfully, the tables are a decent size and can accommodate both of our slates and the coffees.

So, what’s going on, Dave?

I don’t know. But there’s something brewing. You’d want to keep a tight rein on your tongue, eh? Karen has a lot of friends. She wields a lot of power. And according to the terms of your contract, she has absolute discretion over your duties and activities for the duration of this or any other case the Federation might have or dream up.

I know... she just got under my skin, as they used to say. I get the case a couple of hours ago and with it I get a summons to appear at her office and she expects me to already have a perpetrator and judging by her temper, perhaps she expected me to bring his head in with me as well. That’s just not on. The expectations, I mean. The head too, I suppose. I’m not particularly eager to work for someone like that. If she wants to tear up my contract, she can. Plenty of murders in Melbourne, let alone Victoria that need my attention. But for now, I’m more than a little intrigued: it’s not every day I get woken up by someone alleging murder and begging for help, and rarer still for it to come from another planet.

It doesn’t happen to me that often either, Steve. But the Federation business takes priority, as per your contract, so VicPol can’t and won’t complain too much. Plus you’ll still draw your police salary as well as what the Federation pays you, now that they’ve activated the contract. Which’ll add up to a pretty penny. So, what do you want to do first?

I want to create a timeline of communications from New Eden. Then I’ll need the dossier on this Jedediah Owusu bloke.

You’ll want the one for Todd Cunningham, as well, eh? Sure. You’ve got it.

My boss has the habit of asking questions that he promptly answers himself. It’s a bit annoying, but mostly, he’s pretty good as a boss. We get on well together, and he does what’s right, rather than playing politics to get a promotion. He watches my back and watches his budget very closely too.

Yep, I’ll want that too. Who is he?

"He’s the original colony leader, he was on Columbus II. Owusu was on Leviathan and was supposed to support him on arrival. As far as I know."

So it sounds like a little more has gone wrong, doesn’t it? Owusu seems to be in charge now. Unless there’s a joint leadership, which doesn’t sound too likely or we’d get reports signed by the both of them. D’you think that the lack of report from Cunningham might be what’s given the CEO the cold sweats?

Steve, I don’t know the answer to that one. But I know I haven’t seen her like that before. Ever.

The ‘ever’ is superfluous, I say. If you’ve not seen her like that before, it implies the ‘ever.’

Dave lowers his thick white-glazed cup with a coffee logo on it. The cup clinks against its matching saucer. He squints at me. What? Never mind. You know what I mean. Now is not the time for pedantism, Steve.

We finish our short break and walk through the Federation’s grounds. It’s prime real estate, north-east of the city center., and the entire area used to be part of a university. All around it are luxurious homes—mansions, really—and large parklands not available any more to the inner-city dwellers: because the Federation grounds are basically walled, and anyone wanting to enter needs a security pass. They do a lot of research, and have a lot of programs going at the same time, the biggest and most important of which is this New Eden colony.

The historic buildings in the former university (many of which have been converted to apartments or Federation administration buildings) look cool for the most part, but some of the more angular ones look like whoever designed them was given a rule and lacked the imagination to use anything else. It seems to me that drawing a cube doesn’t take much effort from any architect. The sun is warm on my back and the expansive grassed areas are a rich green thanks to some good rainfall over the past few weeks. It’s early autumn, summer having eased-up its scorching of this part of the country.

Okay. I’m heading back to my office. I can work on this case from there.

Here, in the Federation complex, or back at VicPol, just in case we need to talk face-to-face?

Back at VicPol. That way I can control who interrupts me a bit better. And lately I’ve been out on so many raids, they might be considering putting someone in there, thinking I’ve left and not coming back. Plus I need to have a chat with my VicPol masters. Then there’s the inevitable reports to generate.

And the admin assistants are prettier at VicPol, eh? Time you got back on the bike again, don’t you think? Dave is referring to my divorce over half a year ago. It was not so amicable, in the end.

Statistically, marriages within the police force are less stable than for the rest of the population. The nature of the work combined with the relative isolation—police tend to socialize within the force more than outside it—places stresses on relationships that other careers don’t experience. It’s easy to get withdrawn and cynical because as police we’re exposed to the worst aspects of society.

My long hours had exacerbated my wife’s loneliness. She didn’t want to come home from work repeatedly to find I was still as much as half a day away. Holidays became a frustrating time, because a summons to appear at court to give evidence could and in my case, usually did occur prior to departure, obliging me to attend when I was supposed to be with her, in another country. Add-in the chance a spouse might well not come home after leaving to work a ‘normal’ day and it can be harrowing. Indeed, this happened to me and my wife.

She got the message one night that I was in hospital and might well lose my left arm at best, my life at worst. She got there panicked and near-hysterical so I was told later. She sat by my bed for hours With Hamish Angus MacTavish—the surgeon who worked on me—just waiting. And this was despite our relationship having decomposed for some time before that. That stabbing seems to me, to have marked the beginning of the end of our marriage. I think she just felt it was too painful to invest emotions into someone whose existence might well be temporary. I recall how I felt when my parents died and I went to live with relatives until I grew up. As she became withdrawn and remote after that, I guess I did, too. While recuperating and thereafter, I increased the amount of self-defense training I did, and in any event a rash of crime also drew me further away from her. Separation, then divorce proved to be inevitable. I’d have done things differently if I’d understood the situation more.

And so, I parted company with a woman I gave my heart to, and had given me hers in the hope we’d stay together for the rest of our lives. I never betrayed her trust, nor she mine; but the wedge of my work drove us apart with some bitter feuding the result. I had to end it for her sake and mine, and though we still talk every now and then, our lives have diverged and we are both grateful there were no children to add to the problem. I’ve been pretty cautious with my heart since then.

My boss is thrice-divorced, and the way his eye roves, is likely to repeat this little part of his history before too much longer, which would be a shame. I’ve met Evelyn, his current wife and she seems a warm, generous lady, with rather formal mannerisms but is a wonderful conversationalist. She dotes on him, and I think is unlikely to tolerate infidelity from her husband. He inherited some money a few months ago and immediately got himself a rejuv procedure, so he’s feeling sprightly, I guess.

Are they really prettier? I know they’re more efficient. I wonder at times how the Federation ever got anything done, they’re so top-heavy, and seem to hire the most inept people they can find.

True. There’s a couple in there who don’t seem to know what they’re up to and in any event, their duties seem minimal at best.

Hmnn. It’s just like my government bosses, then. So you can get those messages to me, and the dossiers for Owusu, and Cunningham?

Easy.

What about the rest of them—the colonists, I mean—just in case this murder thing turns out to be real? Not that I can do much about it from Earth. Probably the best I can do is provide over the air support to whoever’s on New Eden and doing the investigation.

Okay. I’ll get everyone’s dossiers to you. There’s nearly three hundred of them.

I know, I checked before I came here. I need some background on this communications thing, too. they’ve just set it up recently, haven’t they?

Yes. Something about new technology, and now that they’ve got it, the applications will apparently open up new modes of long-distance transport. It was in last week’s Science For Everyone. It seems to have got a lot of people quite excited. I’ll get the communications people to give you what they’ve got so far and a run-down of the system they’ve set up, if you like? Good. My boss swipes at his slate screen, brings up what looks like a long list of contacts. Tells it to find the head of communications at the Federation and to send contact details to my slate. He instructs it to deliver me personnel files on all the colonists sent to New Eden, in order of seniority and administrative function. When my slate chimes its Beethoven intro a few times, I know there’s information waiting for me, and despite everything, I’m intrigued about what’s been going on.

From then on, I get a torrent of information, some of which prompts me to seek further and to my surprise, I even get that without question.

What I don’t get, is any inkling of what the Federation would eventually do to me.

So where are we, Steve? my boss asks. It’s early afternoon, and I’ve spent several hours going through the materials my boss sent me. His slate and mine are tied in a secure call. He’s leaning back in his desk chair, sipping what looks to be a fresh coffee in a large, red porcelain mug with Dad in large black letters on either side of the handle. He has no children, but thinks the mug makes him more approachable.

Nowhere, Dave, I say. I can’t find anything in any of the documents so far to explain the messages. Your mate Karen is going to be really disappointed.

She’s no friend of mine, Steve. I work for her, that’s all. I don’t like her, don’t trust her. What’s happening with the timeline, eh?

"Seventeen days ago on April twelfth, a communications link was established by the Federation with the colony on New Eden. Jed Owusu is just about the only person who the Federation has communicated with so far, apparently. As you know, it’s text-only because the equipment on Leviathan is fairly old and there’s compatibility issues. It’s to be expected with over two decades separating the technology. They don’t make most of the electronics on Leviathan any more so they can’t build a sister system here for a week or so, to test upgrades to get voice transmission. And nobody remembers how to code for the old stuff anyway."

Back up a bit, Steve. Why do you say, ‘apparently’?

Well, because it’s text-only, it might not even be Owusu on the other end.

Good point. I didn’t know they’d even take any keyboards with them. Way too primitive. I don’t think I could cope with that. I tried using one once, the letters are all over the place, they’re slow and difficult to use, compared to voice. They must have been hedging their bets by taking them.

"I wouldn’t like it either, but that’s what they’ve got. So that’s what they’re probably using. Maybe they’re using speech and letting their slates supply the text. We don’t know for sure. Keyboards were being well-and-truly phased out around the time Leviathan was built, so perhaps they were just hedging their bets a little. And just so you know, people used to be able to type at over a hundred-and-twenty words per minute, or about the speed a lot of people speak. People used to type as a job."

Okay. Dave makes a moué, slurps coffee from his mug.

This guy Owusu—first name Jedediah—born in Ghana 2097 so he was in his low forties when he left for New Eden forty-odd years ago and in terms of his metabolism won’t have aged much because he slept most of the way, before you even include the relativity effects associated with traveling at nearly half light-speed. Doctor of medicine, studied at the very best institutions and universities around the world, including Harvard and Oxford. Turns out he didn't practice medicine much—he went almost straight on to biochemistry research. He was a brilliant, hard-working student, the son of a woodsman—

—a what? asks Dave.

That’s what I call it. ‘Wood-chopper’ seemed wrong, as a word to describe the trade in Africa: Owusu’s dad used to chop firewood. It was still permissible to burn wood for heating and cooking in Africa at that time. His mother was a cleaner. One of seven children, his two sisters both died very young, from unspecified causes. One brother too.

Dave leans towards the screen, and his eyes open a little wider. The corners of his mouth rise a little as he scents a scandal. Fratricide?

"Possibly, but I don’t know how likely that is. Seemed a very jovial, friendly, warm sort—that’s from the observers during his induction, but when they provoked him to see what happened, they noticed he could produce a withering scowl and his blood pressure skyrocketed. Their words, not mine. Further information shows he is quite proud of his heritage and took a good supply of traditionally-patterned clothing with him on Leviathan. He seems pretty good at playing a political game and always has a plan—that’s from an interview with several of his fellow students and colleagues. That said, he seems to have been respected and well-liked in general. His second-in-command—a Doctor Saira Ranieri was chosen as such because they were deemed to get on well together and had complementary natures and skills."

I continue on, Physically, he’s pretty stocky, but not that tall at about 175 centimeters, but at 92 kilos and no excess fat, he’s looking like a pretty powerful guy.

He studied around the world? How did he afford that? And how did the son of a house-maid and wood-chopper get to afford the fare to America in the first place, eh?

I rub my chin, finding a place where I missed some stubble this morning. I shrug. "That’s unknown. He appears to have had significant financial help from someone, somewhere, probably in his home country, but the Federation investigators couldn’t find out who, or if they did, it isn’t in here. The money for his tuition and travel seems to have come direct from a variety of sources, many of which were companies owned by other companies and things got complex after that. Looking into the more confidential reports, there was some thought to booting him off the program purely because they were worried his past might come out and discredit the Federation in some way. I guess they didn’t want someone who might have been sponsored by a criminal element—and there were lots in Africa at that time. But once the doors were shut on Leviathan, they lost all interest because there wasn’t any going back. He passed all their tests, met all their criteria. So nobody knows at all, even now."

I’ll see what I can find out for you. I’ve a friend or two back home who might pull a couple of strings for me. Perhaps the Federation should have looked harder. The victim might be alive now.

Yeah, that’s a thought, but we’ve only got an allegation of murder so far. Getting back to Owusu, he scored maximum for attributes like integrity and honesty. Like most on the program, he’s also a dab hand at organization, and once focused on a goal, can become extremely dedicated to achieving it.

So if this Conlon person crossed him in some way or presented a threat of some sort, he’d not hesitate to umm… eliminate such an obstacle?

Yes, it seems to me a possible scenario, although he is also very charismatic and charming, and tested very low for violent tendencies in spite of his demeanor when riled. Little chance of him resorting to violence under any circumstances. More likely he’d sweet-talk Conlon, convince her of the error of her ways. That’s my initial conclusion.

Alright. We’ll move on for now, look at some others Steve? We can always come back to him later. What about his second-in-command? This Sara Ranieri? asks Dave. Another doctor. She looks gorgeous in her dossier photos. Is there a chance she might have something to do with all this? According to the reports she and Owusu seemed to strike up a strong friendship during training. There might be some form of lover’s triangle going on. Wouldn’t be the first beautiful woman who’s caused trouble. Nor the first female murderer.

Hmnn. There’s no doubt she’s attractive but I think we’re getting too far into speculation. We don’t know anything about any relationships, whether it’s Conlon-Ranieri, or Ranieri-Owusu or whatever. I have to be objective about all this. Guesswork is out. Otherwise we have two hundred and ninety two people we can set up all sorts of permutations and combinations for, for a near-infinite variety of relationships, conspiracies, and such. The CEO can just accept there’s insufficient information as yet to form any meaningful conclusion. Or even useful guess.

Regarding communications, says Dave. This Ranieri got onto the link shortly after it was established and asked about her parents. The Federation told her they had both passed away just a short while before the link was established. She didn’t even reply. Just shut down the link.

It mightn’t mean anything. Could be just the shock of hearing that.

Maybe. But we don’t know for certain.

I shrug.

We both pause for a few minutes, thinking about what we’ve bounced between us.

Then there’s Owusu’s orders, I say. He was specifically told to assess the situation on arrival, that he was to approach Cunningham to establish a rapport and help him with his tasks, but his highest priority was the establishment of a viable, sustainable colony on New Eden. Basically to make sure everyone built a home there.

And what about Cunningham’s orders? asks Dave.

His orders were quite simple and much the same, too: conduct research into all characteristics of New Eden including but not restricted to flora, fauna, geography, climate, and geology with a view to establishing a viable colony on New Eden, suitable for initial human populations and increases due to the formation of family groups.

"Seems hard for anyone to go wrong with that, don’t you think? I presume Cunningham would have made significant progress with the colony once he and the others on Columbus II arrived."

"I’m working on that assumption, too, Dave. Then there’s the supplementary orders beamed to Columbus II by the Federation after Leviathan was launched, although Cunningham wouldn’t have read them till he was in close orbit with New Eden, because like everyone else, he was cocooned and sleeping for most of the journey."

Of course.

"They’re quite straightforward too: seek assistance from Jedediah Owusu and the second group of colonists to successfully execute the initial and final orders and goals set for the colonists aboard Columbus II. At least, that’s my reading of them—they’re in Federation-speak and I’ve interpreted them as best I can."

Okay. It all sounds to me that things should have turned out fine, not that we’ll ever really know. So where are you now, Steve? No real progress, I expect.

Nope. Owusu or whoever it was sent a series of brief reports over the few days following the initial contact, outlining the colony’s status and what the people there were up to. They’re investigating a number of locations for a permanent settlement, and short-listed two, one of which they think is marginally better. I’d have thought that after four years, they’d have got a bit more done. But, in all likelihood there’s a lot of new species of animals there, and they’re up to all sorts of research, most of it on the local wildlife and plants, some of which will be quite dangerous.

Dave looks at some point on the wall in his office, thinking, scratching his chin. Four years to come up with ‘let’s go this way’ seems a bit slow, to me. If Karen thought this investigation was tardy, she’d be apoplectic over that bit of information. She’d have been hoping they’d already have kindergartens set up.

I grin at the thought of how the CEO might have reacted when reading the reports. "Yup. Those reports ended sometime on the sixteenth. I don’t know how quick the typing gets from one planet to the other, but according to the logs, it seems that it’s nearly instantaneous.

"Then on April the twentieth, comes this message: Regret to inform that Solace Colon, member of Columbus II, has died due to tragic accident. Burial services held yesterday. Please pass information to any and all surviving relatives and their descendants."

That’s what I’ve got here. Not much of an announcement is it? For the first recorded death off-world. says Dave.

Potential murder, I say. And no, it’s a bit thin as far as death notices go, alright. Then nothing. It’s as if nobody was monitoring the line anymore, or didn’t want to write back. The Federation sent lots of messages requesting clarification and further information and just plain invitations to talk about what New Eden was like, how everyone else was and so forth. No response. Dave, is everyone certain the link is still working?

I’ve spoken to the techs, and they say, yes, the information has to be getting to its destination. They can’t comment on too much else, but they do say they get a ping back from each transmission of theirs.

So Earth was being ignored for about a week. And then someone signing themselves as ‘Jed Owusu’ sends through that message today. At 5:24 am on April 26th our time, to be precise. And whoever it is has declined to respond to that in any way.

I still want to allow for some equipment malfunction until we can prove otherwise. Maybe their transmitting equipment has died meaning they can receive but not send. Theirs is quite old, and this technology is still somewhat experimental, although it seems to be developing at a phenomenal rate. There’s been lots on the news about it. Have you been watching? Probably not. Suggestions that in the future they can send living creatures instantaneously across space. Amazing stuff, eh? Spaceships could soon be nearly obsolete.

Really? Does sound pretty exciting when you put it like that. I’ve been up to my armpits in work. Haven’t spent much time catching up on the news. As far as a malfunction goes, that’s unlikely at best. For it to work okay, then not for about a week, then work, then another week off the air, then on again today and now it’s broken again? It stretches the imagination. Wouldn’t they tell us straight up if it’s got some sort of problem?

My boss sighs. You’re right of course, Steve. I’m just playing ‘Devil’s Advocate’ here. One would expect them so say something along those lines. I’ve run through the same timeline you just did. Have you tried to raise Owusu?

Nope. No point. The Feds are doing that every hour. They’ll scale it back soon to once every few hours, then further back later in the day.

Is it possible that it’s a hoax? A prank?

Anything’s possible, Dave. But really, who’d risk it, and in such a manner? I mean, it’s just not funny. If the Federation took the announcement seriously and any of Conlon’s relatives heard that they’d be pretty upset, wouldn’t they? And the Federation would come down pretty hard on whoever did it. Heads would roll for sure. And the CEO looks like she’d be wielding the ax and enjoying it. I’m impressed they’ve managed to keep such a tight lid on this.

True. All hell would break loose if this got out before we knew what was going on. So what’s the next step?

There’s nothing we can do in terms of contacting New Eden that the Feds aren’t already doing. If they can’t raise them, then I won’t be able to, either.

That’s also true. But I’d like you to try yourself, because if there is anything that Karen can find fault with, in her current mood, she’ll go after you over it.

Okay. Let me make a few tries over the next couple of hours. Between attempts, I’ll keep going though some of these personnel files you’ve given me, especially the psych reports. Is there anything you can think of that I might try?

Not right now. If anything crops up, I’ll get back to you.

I hang