Life on Mars: A Jim Meade, Martian P.I. Novel: Jim Meade, Martian P.I., #4

By RJ Johnson

Murder, betrayal, the fate of humanity . . .  It's all in a day's work for Jim Meade, the Martian P.I.

 

It's a dark time for Jim Meade. Ensnared by depression, the Martian P.I. spends the majority of his time and money at the poker tables, gambling what little he has left while drinking every last drop of alcohol he can get his hands on. 

 

Until his oldest friend and mentor, Kansas Greyborn, comes to him with shocking news: Intelligent life has been discovered at a remote outpost deep in the Martian Outback and the scientists who made the discovery have disappeared. Intrigued by the case, Meade agrees to 'unretire' and investigate what happened to the two missing men. 

 

Meade quickly discovers the case is far more twisted than he expected and that he's become caught up within a secret conspiracy. Someone is intent on allowing a fascist dictatorship to take over the fledgling Martian democracy.

 

Now, he must battle his demons while struggling to save the city he loves before life on Mars becomes a deadly proposition for everyone who calls the Red Planet home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RJ Johnson
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985952612

Book preview

Prologue

They always said the waiting was the hardest part. Whoever ‘they’ were, didn’t know half of the story.

Doctor Axel Zimmermann chewed his bottom lip, a habit he resorted to during times of great stress. And this moment certainly qualified as the most stressful time of his life so far. After years of disappointment, and more time in the lab than he cared to admit, everything he had been working toward now depended on the billions of calculations being processed by the computer in front of him.

All the research and studying in the world could never prepare one for the pain of waiting for the results of an experiment that could alter the course of human history.

He watched the screen, a serene expression on his face, even as his stomach was a roiling mess of emotions. But at least he wasn’t alone in his discomfort. The frantic, impatient sounds of his longtime research partner, Doctor Malcom MacCloud, made it clear that his friend was just as nervous about the pending results as he was. Malcom, while brilliant, had always been prone to fits of anxiety—especially when they were in the middle of a critical experiment.

He empathized with his friend and partner for the last fifteen years. In truth, if there was something he could do to make their lumbering laboratory computer work faster, he would do it. But there was nothing he could change about the literal laws of physics that governed how rapidly the machine in front of them could process the volume of calculations they’d asked of it.

How much longer? Malcom had asked various forms of this question over the last fifteen minutes while pacing back and forth across the room. People are counting on us, Axel. Need I remind you what we have at stake?

Zimmermann bit down on his lip, harder this time, and tasted blood. He decided to temper his initial irritated reply, and instead tried to remember the kindness and brilliance of his friend when they weren’t working on the project that had come to define their life over the last several years.

It will take as long as it requires. He shrugged. You know better than anyone that we are in uncharted territory and that we must not rush these results.

Malcom harrumphed Axel’s attempt to mollify him and went back to pacing back and forth in the expansive laboratory they had set up in the middle of the Martian Outback. Their research was important—but highly illegal. They faced long jail sentences and stiff fines if their work was discovered. Fortunately, their sponsors were well-connected and had given them rock-solid assurances they would be regarded as heroes, not criminals, for violating Treaty of ‘44 if they could deliver on their promised results.

He was proud of the work they were doing out here. Treaty of ‘44 had banned research into certain technologies, making skills like his own useless in a world that had become unserious about discovery and forward technological progress.

On the one hand, he understood humanity’s caution—The Last War had taken billions of lives and left the Homeworld devastated. But it had also fueled the rapid innovation that launched humanity into space and the creation of engineering marvels like the construction of The Lid that kept the population on Mars safe and secure against the Red Planet’s hostile environment.

That is, until the treaty was signed.

Not all research was banned of course. After achieving his first PhD, he had found a cushy job working as a data scientist, where he stared at enormous charts filled numbers all day, hoping they might add up to something meaningful. But of course, they never did.

The work was infuriatingly tedious, and he found himself wondering if he was really meant to stare at a computer screen his entire life, while doing nothing that might make the system a better place for all. He had become a scientist to improve people’s lives, not monitor them through a vast database.

He had been ready to give up his dreams of making any kind of impact when he met Malcom, a fellow scientist who worked in another department at the same company as him. They quickly discovered they made a great team, and partnership born out of hope and mutual mistrust in the Coalition was formed.

Now, after all these years, they were finally on the precipice of discovery that promised to transform everything for the better. It was a heady feeling, to be moments away from achieving the goal you’d dreamed of your entire life. For a moment, Zimmermann wondered if all this was a dream and he would wake up, frustrated, their goal out of reach once again.

But, as the progress bar ticked to 46%, he had a gut feeling they were going to be successful here today. Humanity was about to take its next step into the stars and the first steps of that journey began in their laboratory here and now.

That is, if this computer ever finishes the damned calculations, he muttered to himself.

Malcom turned and raised an eyebrow. You’re talking to yourself again. You know I hate that.

It’s nothing. I’m sorry.

Malcom strode across the room, hovering over his shoulder, staring at the computer screen, a hungry look in his eyes as the progress bar ticked over to 48%.

Are you certain it will work this time? Malcom asked. We have tested hundreds of samples before, all of which you also assured me would give us the results we desire.

He bit back another sarcastic response and instead took a breath. This was no time for one of their dustups. Not when they were so close.

Malcom, a little faith please. Science is not without its risks and disappointments.

His friend shook his head, waving his arms in the air as he whined. If this sample fails, I fear we will be left with nothing to show our sponsors for their investment. We’ll be seen as laughingstocks at best and spend the rest of our lives in jail at worst. And rightly so! Or, perhaps we’ll get lucky, and they’ll send us to mine ORI together on an asteroid millions of kilometers away from the only home we’ve ever known.

He exhaled quietly, counted to ten, then turned to face Malcom, hoping to calm him down. Until the sample is processed, we live in a state of possibility. There is no sense in carrying the burdens of an unknown future.

Malcom paused, then nodded after a moment. Yes, of course, I’m just—

Yes, I know. They were warriors of science, who had fought the same battles and endured the same humiliations. There was no need for further words between them. He understood Malcom’s worries about their future. He had similar thoughts himself.

They sat in silence for the next hour or so, watching the status bar crawl achingly slowly toward 100%. When the computer finally chimed, they both startled and looked in shock at the screen.

He couldn’t believe the words on the display. It was finally happening. He read the three words that would change their lives forever.

Unique proteins detected.

He clapped his hands and whooped in joy. He stood and turned to embrace his friend as Malcom began to sob, finally seeing their years of hard work finally pay off.

It’s real. Malcom’s voice was filled with wonder and admiration. You’ve done it.

"We’ve done it," he corrected, hugging his partner tight. They celebrated for a few moments, then rushed over to the computer, where they began to digest the data and its ramifications for their work.

Several hours later, after exhausting themselves and ensuring they hadn’t stumbled into a false positive, Malcom collapsed on the couch where he had already begun snoring. The man could always sleep anywhere.

But Axel was having more trouble getting some rest. There was a stray, stubborn thought that refused to leave his mind.

What if they had just opened Pandora’s Box?

Chapter 1

Drunk and Disorderly

Jim Meade was having trouble seeing his cards. But that’s what drinking a bottle of whiskey did to a man his size.

He blinked several times, trying to refocus and lowered his head, squeezing the two cards he had been dealt, spotting what looked like two aces. He had been card dead for hours and hadn’t scooped a pot all night. But seeing the twin bullets felt like mana from heaven. It was about time he had a decent starting hand. The universe owed him a win after the last few hours of absolute crap at the poker table.

I’ll raise, two hundred, he slurred, tossing the chips into the pile.

Don’t splash the pot, Tony, a regular at The Lady Luck Casino said, sounding irritated.

Meade rolled his eyes and then deliberately pulled his chips out of the pot, stacking them somewhat sloppily in front of him. That better?

Tony muttered something about Meade acting like an asshole, and called, pushing a sizable stack of chips forward. The rest of the table folded their hands, content to watch the heads-up match from the sidelines.

Meade hated to admit it, but he had been playing on tilt all night. Sure, he had made a few mistakes—chased some draws that hadn’t paid off and bluffed at the wrong times—but this hand felt different. He was positive the two aces would be the thing to turn things around. He might even manage to get even on the night instead of being stuck three thousand credits if he played the hand right.

Tony, his opponent in this heads-up match, was a retired ‘Mole,’ or miner, who had struck it rich ten years ago and had wisely invested his initial jackpot. Over the years, his investments had grown considerably, and he was now worth several hundred million credits. These days, the retired mole liked to spend his leisure time losing a small percentage of his estate at the poker tables to all the sharks who loved taking bites out of Tony’s nearly unlimited bankroll. Many suspected Tony was a better player than he acted, and his terrible play was his way of spreading his considerable wealth around to his friends.

Seeing the pot was right, the dealer tapped his hand on the felt, discarded the first card off the top of the deck, and then turned three more cards face up. An Ace of Hearts, Queen of Spades, and the Queen of Hearts.

Meade felt his chest swell with excitement but kept his cool on the surface. It was a point of pride that no matter how drunk he got; he always had a good poker face. Besides, he wasn’t about to ruin his first big lucky break of the night. Flopping a full house was a sign from above that things were finally about to go his way.

He didn’t want to scare off his opponent when there was a potential flush on the board, but hopefully, the man on the other side of the table was willing to pay to chase it.

He laid out a small bet, about half the pot size. He wanted to make it appear as if he was probing for information, while still making it cheap enough for Tony to try and chase it down. His opponent quickly called.

The dealer placed another card down, a three of clubs, another card that was unlikely to help his opponent. Meade decided to check this time, hoping to keep things cheap and his opponent would catch up on the river.

To his surprise, Tony bet the pot, a not-inconsiderable size of money that would put him all-in. He smiled and quickly called, knowing the hand was all but over with anyway.

Sorry, Tony, I flopped it. Meade turned his cards over, smiling broadly at his opponent. Damn, it felt good to finally win a hand.

The rest of the table stared back at him, looking confused.

Flopped what? Tony asked.

He looked down at his cards and saw that in his drunken state, he had tragically misread them. Instead of the two aces he expected to turn over, the two cards he had been holding were a four and a seven. Tony turned over his cards to show the Ace of Spades and the Queen of Clubs, giving him a full house—and the pot.

Meade felt a red-hot rush of shame course through his body. He ripped his two cards in half and slammed them down on the table, not even bothering to wait for the river card.

Fucking bullshit cards all night! he fumed. Take your money, Tony. Congrats, asshole.

He picked up the rest of his chips and hurled them at his opponent, furious at himself for so badly misreading his cards. This wasn’t the first time he had gone broke at the tables, but it was the first time he had lost his temper about it.

James Augustus Meade! A sharp voice cut through the noisy crowd at the Lady Luck Casino, and all conversation stopped as the crowd looked at the source of the commotion. Roxanne Verblinski, the owner and operator of The Lucky Lady Casino, strode through the crowded casino until she reached him. She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him away from the table, as his fellow players jeered and shouted at him.

He tried to resist, but the Ukrainian woman was strong—a lot stronger than he expected—and she wasn’t about to give him a chance to escape her grip. He had seen his friend pissed off plenty of times at the moles who couldn’t keep their hands off the staff. But this was the first time the fiery red-headed proprietor had ever directed her ire at him.

You’re fucked, Meade! one of his so-called poker buddies yelled out.

Shoulda kicked him out weeks ago! another mole chirped from a different table.

Send him packin’, Roxy! A third person in the casino cried out, and this call was met with raucous cheers and boos as Roxanne dragged him through the casino, passing everyone Meade had the pleasure of knowing.

Knowing he wasn’t going to win this battle, he decided to go with Roxanne and see what she wanted. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had any chips left back at the table.

His night was over before it even began.

Chapter 2

Dressing Down

Meade howled in protest as Roxanne dragged him by the ear through a door that led to the interior of the casino where her office was located. She opened the door and pushed him down onto the couch, harumph- ing at his condition. Slightly unsteady, he fell back onto the comfortable sofa.

Roxanne turned to the liquor cabinet and withdrew a bottle filled with amber liquid and two glasses. She placed one glass in front of her and another in front of him.

If you wanted to have a drink with me, all you had to do was ask. He kicked his feet up on the table in front of him. No need for all the dramatics.

She glared at him and kicked his feet off the table. She poured a generous shot into the glass in front of her. He waited for her to pour him one, but she only stared at him, keeping one hand on the bottle.

You gonna pour me one of those? he asked, breaking the silence. You know I had a drink on the way for me when I got called to the principal’s office.

Roxanne shook her head. You’ve had enough for tonight.

He waved his hand. Oh, don’t you start.

I damn sure am going to start. Look at yourself. She eyed him up and down. We all know you’re still hurting over Emeline’s death. Hell, we all are. But you cannot start a fight in my place. I don’t care who you are or what you’ve done for the MPC over the years. You don’t get to act like this.

Meade snorted. Oh, my apologies, I had no idea. When did The Lady Luck turn into such a fine dining experience?

She stood and leaned forward, slapping him across the cheek. Don’t you dare disrespect me, Jim Meade.

He stared at her in shock and then hung his head, ashamed of his behavior. She stared back at him, and her face softened.

I know you’ve been having a tough go lately. But it’s been three years since Emeline died and it’s time you moved on.

Meade grunted. Move on. Whatever that means.

It means evicting the ghosts in your life. Roxanne moved back to the desk to her drink and sipped at it as she considered her words.

Well, go on. Meade looked up at her. I know that look. You wanna say something, so go ahead and say it.

She nodded and put the drink down. You allow her death to haunt you because you can’t, or don’t want to accept the idea that she’s really gone.

She’s not dead, he protested. Not really. The clone the professor created is still out there and has all her memories and—

And she isn’t her, Roxanne finished for him. You couldn’t expect her to step in and become the woman you loved when she was only a construct built by a madman who had his own motivations. Let’s not forget, he only created her to manipulate you, so it’s not as if she was someone who had your best interests in mind. It’s about time you accepted the fact that Emeline is never, ever coming back and no amount of drugs, alcohol, or cards will fill the void she left in your heart.

He looked away. This wasn’t the first time he had heard something like this. It was more like the thousandth or so time. After Emeline died, it seemed like everyone came out of the woodwork with some piece of advice for him to "get over it or move on."

The fact was, he didn’t want to move on. In some strange way, the pain reminded him of her, and he didn’t want to let go of that. It was one of the few things he had left.

Truth is, Meade, you’re dying on the vine, Roxanne said. And everyone sees it but you.

Oh yeah? What exactly do you see? He didn’t like being taken to task, even if he probably deserved it.

I see a man in a self-destructive spiral who’s given up on anything good. She stared at him, her face a mixture of emotions.

Maybe I have, he muttered.

She snorted, then shook her head. I’ve tried with you, Meade. Lord knows I’ve tried. You want to slowly kill yourself, fine. But you don’t get to do it in my casino anymore. You’re banned.

He sat up straight, anger shooting through his body. You’re banning your oldest friend? The guy who always helped you when you needed a hand? Shoot, if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even own this dump.

But I do ‘own this dump,’ she retorted, her voice sounding sad and tired at the same time. "And it’s my prerogative to welcome the customers I want. And as of right now, you are no longer welcome here, Jim. I’m sorry. You can come back after you get healthy, but not before."

He felt the anger drain out of him. He was so tired. Tired of people looking at him with pity. Tired of people calling him the ‘Hero of Rosetta’ to his face, while pitying him behind his back.

He looked up at her and stared into her eyes. She looked back at him, her eyes filled with concern and resolve. That’s when he knew this fight was over.

Rule #24: Know when you’re beat.

Nothing he said or did tonight would change Roxanne’s mind. Besides, wasn’t he used to losing friends and allies by now? What was one more?

He stood and, without another word, left Roxanne behind in her office.

He wanted a drink and knew exactly where to find one.

Chapter 3

Home, Sweet Home

Meade wandered the streets of New Plymouth, taking the long way home. Normally he would hire an aerocycle, which would have him home in a few minutes. But after losing the rest of his weekly stipend at the poker tables tonight, he couldn’t afford one—at least, not until his benefit check cleared later this week.

Once upon a time, he had earned a great deal of money during the boom times of his private detective business. But after Emeline died, he had lost interest in the cases people brought him and business eventually dried up. The money he saved over the years went quickly, and soon, he found himself in the familiar situation of being broke and alone once again.

As one of the top-ranking heroes of the revolution against the Coalition, the weekly benefit checks sent to him by the Martian Planetary Caucus kept him fed and sheltered. But somehow, he always managed to go through the money faster than it came in.

Way of life, he supposed.

Eventually, he found himself in front of the bar he had inherited from Emeline after she died. The Last Ditch had been famous among the Martian residents in E-block (and beyond) thanks to Emeline’s brand of homemade whiskey. But much like everything else in his life, he had neglected the maintenance and care of the bar over the last few years and because of that, the reputation of the bar had suffered.

The building became rundown and dilapidated, even as the rest of the neighborhood thrived thanks to the post-war economic boom. The t in Ditch had fallen off the sign, and the paint on the side of the building was peeling and faded. The front door wouldn’t swing all the way open, which meant anyone who wanted a drink had to turn sideways to squeeze themselves inside to bypass the malfunctioning doors.

Not that the place had seen many customers over the last few months.

He looked around at the rest of the neighborhood, which had cleaned up considerably since he first moved in fifteen years ago. Back then, the area had been a collection of trulls and goons employed by the local warlords. But after the Martian Planetary Caucus, or MPC, as it was colloquially known, had taken over New Plymouth from the Coalition, peace and prosperity finally had a chance to take root on Mars. The neighborhood around him had gone through a revitalization of sorts, nurtured by federal money and improved infrastructure.

He had been approached multiple times about selling the building, but he couldn’t bring himself to sign the papers. Selling The Last Ditch would mean losing yet another connection to Emeline, something he was not prepared to do. He wasn’t sure if he would ever sign those papers, no matter how broke he got. This had been the place where he created some of the best memories of his life with her. They would have to demolish this building over his dead body.

Which, by the way things were going lately, the developers might not have to wait all that long.

He entered the bar and tried the light switch located to the left of the door. He flipped it and the lights flickered on—albeit weakly, with several of the bulbs having gone dark months ago. He hadn’t cared to replace them after they originally burned out because he hadn’t seen the point. It wasn’t as if anyone was around to complain.

He stepped forward and tripped on a tile that had come loose last week. If he had been sober, it would have only been a troubling reminder there was a lot of maintenance to do. But, after downing more than a bottle of whiskey while playing poker at The Lucky Lady, he was sloshed, and his equilibrium was gone.

He fell, face first, his nose smashing onto the cold, dirty floor. The shock of the impact was followed by the unwelcome sensation of a warm trickle of blood flooding down his face. He moaned in pain as he turned over, touching his nose tenderly, wondering if he had broken it. It felt tender, but not broken, so he counted himself lucky.

Further inspection of his injuries revealed he also opened a sizable gash above his eyebrow, which was responsible for the blood all over the light blue button-up shirt he had chosen to wear this morning.

He pushed himself off the ground, growling in pain with the effort. He stumbled to the bar, looking for the last drink of the night. After all, he had earned it, hadn’t he?

He fumbled behind the bar, found the well empty, and cursed at his laziness. With customers becoming a rare sight, he hadn’t had much of a reason to put an order in with his supplier. Not that it mattered, he was way behind on bills and hadn’t had the money to pay the increasingly annoyed vendors.

He dug through the cabinets, tossing empty bottles to his right and left, ignoring the crashing sound of the glass when they hit the floor. But to his dismay, they were all empty. He’d finally finished off every bit of liquor in the bar.

That is, except for one bottle.

He turned and eyed the last full bottle in the bar—it was one he had avoided touching for the last three years.

He approached the bottle and took it down from its place of honor, holding it reverently in his hands. It was from the last batch Emeline ever brewed. That is, before she had sacrificed herself during the Venus incident, saving his life and preventing an interstellar war.

He had avoided opening this bottle for any reason, knowing that if he drank it, he would be consuming the last thing she had ever created. And then that would mean she was truly gone, forever.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar and sighed. He didn’t need another drink. He needed sleep.

He set the bottle back in its place of honor, and walked over the glass on the ground, the sound crunching under his boots. That was a mess for tomorrow.

He made his way upstairs, swerving right to left, trying to keep his balance. After entering the bathroom, he dug around the closet until he found a medkit that hadn’t been opened since the Martian’s fight for independence from the Coalition. Thankfully, there hadn’t been much use for it since the war ended three years ago.

He removed the antiseptic from the kit and applied it to the wound over his right eye. The clay-like substance formed a sanitary barrier that would assist in healing the cut and prevent any major scarring. He didn’t need another reminder about tonight’s pratfall.

Meade gingerly stuffed his nose with the leftover gauze, wincing in pain every time he touched his face. After a few moments, the blood that had been flowing out of his nose like a waterfall back on the Homeworld slowed to a mere trickle.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror and was caught off guard by how miserable he appeared. Dark blue and black circles underlined his eyes, giving him a gaunt appearance, and his face, still bright red from the blood, was bruised in several places thanks to his fall.

The man looking back at him didn’t look healthy—even if you discounted the banged-up face. It didn’t help that he had lost thirty pounds over the last few years, making him skinnier than ever. Eating hadn’t been much of a priority—he preferred to drink most of his calories these days.

He turned away from the mirror, Roxanne’s words still echoing in his head. He didn’t think he was in a self-destructive spiral necessarily, but the proprietor of The Lady Luck was one of his oldest friends. She wouldn’t have said something if things weren’t getting bad.

He moved to his bed, his head spinning and his face beginning to ache. Deep down, a voice warned him he would wake up even more miserable if he didn’t take the time to get some water and aspirin, but the call of his bed was too strong.

He collapsed onto his mattress, sheets bunched to the side, too tired and too drunk to bother taking his blood-stained clothes off.

Home, sweet home, Emeline used to tell him before they’d fall asleep together.

Home, sweet home, indeed, sweet Em, he thought, before finally, mercifully passing out.

Chapter 4

Rise and Shine

When morning arrived on the Red Planet, Meade woke to find himself lying in a puddle of his own urine, his head splitting, nose throbbing, and a sharp bolt of pain accentuating every heartbeat.

He struggled to raise his head and saw the disapproving glare of his oldest friend and mentor, Kansas Greyborn, staring at him from the corner of his room.

Kansas, he managed after a moment. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton. How the hell did you get in here?

Kansas stroked his long white beard and then tossed him a set of keys. You still keep a spare set in the lamppost above the sign.

He groaned. This was not how he wanted to be seen by one of his oldest friends.

You ever gonna fix that sign out there? his friend asked, tilting his head and raising an eyebrow.

It’s on the list. With considerable effort, he lifted himself out of the