REMEMBERING RACHEL

by Dave Creek

If memory becomes a matter of choice, a lot of things get more complicated. Dacia’s comm buzzed, awakening her from a deep sleep. Her hand reached from beneath her covers to accept the call, audio only. “Yes?” she muttered.

* * * *

“It’s Detective Nafasi, Constable Stark. Sorry to bother you on a Saturday morning.”

Dacia sat up in bed. “What’s happened? Something to do with those Earth Alliance bastards?”

“No, ma’am, thank goodness for that. But it’s bad enough. Level 15, Apartment 24. A woman named Rachel Cantara. Materials researcher at LunaLab.”

“I take it she’s dead.”

“That’s what sensors tell us. Sort of.”

Dacia planted her feet on the floor and stood, slowly in the Lunar grav. “What’s ‘sort of’ mean?” she asked as she began to dress.

“It means she’s been missing for hours and traces of her don’t register anywhere in the city except in her room. But that’s only residue.”

“Residue? As if she’s been disintegrated or something?”

“Exactly that, ma’am.”

“So you haven’t forced the door.”

“We haven’t,” Detective Nafasi said.

“Do so, on my authority. If her body is there, examine it, and if she’s alive get her to the hospital.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Don’t touch a thing.”

“Yes, ma’am. But . . . something you ought to know.”

“Yes?”

“The dead woman is Secretary Grayson Whitford’s fiancé.”

Oh, shit, was Dacia’s first thought. The only man who might be able to force the “peacekeepers” off-world. And, almost inevitably, the prime suspect. “I’ll be right there,” she said.

* * * *

Dacia finished dressing and soon was pedaling about one hundred kilometers per hour down emergency lanes that let her bypass both wheeled and foot traffic. As she pedaled through the Earthlike landscape of Armstrong Park, she passed other bicyclists gliding along paved byways and families walking across gentle grass-covered slopes. Overhead, sport fliers spread their artificial wings and soared, many launching from the wide ledge at the apex of the vast concrete dome covering the city.

Each time she approached Earth Alliance peacekeepers at the inevitable checkpoints, she flashed the constable’s shield that hung around her neck. To her relief, even as they waylaid innocent families who would never dream of violence against the Alliance, they waved her on each time. These troops were the last lingering insult from the home world, and their presence was the subject of continued intense negotiations between Brussels and Tranquility City.

Negotiations that Grayson Whitford headed up on the Lunar side.

As she skirted downtown, though, she saw the lingering evidence of those who advocated a violent overthrow of Alliance rule—stores with windows under repair and walls that still bore the scars of recent fires.

And she remembered her anger at having to take people into custody whom she agreed with politically.

Within ten minutes Dacia reached Level 15, stashed her bike in a small storage room at the end of a hallway, and walked out onto the main residential area.

Level 15 was a typical row of living quarters overlooking Armstrong Park. Outside number 24, Rachel Cantara’s apartment, stood Detective Nafasi, along with a crime scene tech and two deputies. They’d opened the apartment door, but still stood outside. Which means she’s dead, Dacia thought. One hope shattered.

To her distaste, an Alliance peacekeeper, armored and with a pulse rifle shouldered, stood several doorways down. He was just far enough away not to be intruding upon the scene, but close enough to see what was going on.

Set that aside for now, Dacia thought, and went up to Nafasi and shook his hand, giving the other personnel on the scene a quick nod. “What do we have?”

Nafasi indicated the interior of the apartment. It was typical of living quarters here in Tranquility; a primary living area featured just room enough for a sofa bed, a couple of chairs, and a desk. Beyond were a small kitchen and a bathroom.

No one was inside.

Nafasi said, “Sensor readings show residual genetic material of the victim.”

“Of Rachel Cantara.”

“Yes. We also detected readings of what we presume was the murder weapon, apparently set to overload and destroy itself.”

Dacia asked, “So we don’t know the exact make of the weapon itself?”

“We don’t.”

“Any signs that anyone else has been here recently?”

“Grayson Whitford. But as the fiancé—”

“That’s not unexpected. I understand. Any time frame on when he was last here?”

Nafasi shook his head. “Given the destruction of the body, and of the weapon itself within such a small space, time-frame readings aren’t reliable.”

“What about Whitford himself?”

“I haven’t notified him.”

So the honor falls to me, Dacia thought. Great.

“Another thing,” Nafasi said. “The door wasn’t forced.”

“So whoever killed her is probably someone she knew and let in.”

“Seems that way,” Nafasi said.

“What about surveillance records?”

“Security holos verify she left work at LunaLab at her usual time yesterday afternoon. But cameras haven’t been installed yet at the entrances to this living level.”

“Anything from someone who actually saw her?”

“Still working on that. Her mother reported the first concerns about her this morning. She hasn’t been notified yet.”

Dacia asked, “Do you have your interrogation kit?”

Detective Nafasi patted a small pouch at his side. “Right here.”

“Then let’s go see Whitford.”

* * * *

Dacia and Nafasi retrieved their bikes. Using her law enforcement privacy override, Dacia punched in a request for Whitford’s location. I should’ve realized, she thought as the display came back. Not at home. At the embassy.

Another quick bike ride, as Dacia and Nafasi skirted Armstrong Park and headed directly for Cernan Plaza. Along the way, Dacia arranged for an officer and a chaplain to visit Cantara’s mother, who lived on the other side of Tranquility City, and give her the tragic news.

Once at the plaza, Dacia and Nafasi placed their bikes in a public rack, moon-hopped up the wide stairs that led to the building that housed Embassy Row, and stopped cold at the top. To one side of the main entrance stood a pair of Alliance peacekeepers with shouldered rifles. To the other stood two Lunar Authority security guards. They wore no armor, and their only weapons were holstered pulse pistols.

Even as Dacia pulled out her constable’s shield, she knew it would have no magical powers to get her inside. One of the Lunar security guards spoke up: “These are important negotiations going on inside—” He took a close look at the shield. “—Constable Stark. Not to be disturbed.”

Dacia took a deep breath and told the guard, “I have an urgent and personal message for Secretary Whitford.”

“He in particular is not to be disturbed.”

“I’m investigating a homicide.” That was usually the trump card in most conversations, but it elicited only a raised eyebrow from the guard, who said, “I’ll take your concern inside.” He looked toward the Alliance peacekeepers. “If that’s acceptable.”

One of the peacekeepers turned his head toward them and made a single slow nod. Dacia suppressed a sigh as the Lunar guard entered the building.

Nafasi asked, “So, what do you think the odds are?”

“That we’ll get in?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty good. That you’ll get to use your interrogation kit? Slim.”

From behind her: “Constable Stark.” She turned, and the Lunar guard waved them inside.

* * * *

As Dacia and Detective Nafasi were shown into Grayson Whitford’s office, Dacia’s first impression of him was of a man in complete control of himself. He awaited their arrival, seemingly relaxed and open, before his uncluttered desk. He offered a hand to shake quickly enough, while flashing the professional smile of a diplomat. But Dacia saw the lines around his mouth and eyes that came from maintaining his polite, I’m-just-a-regular-guy facade, saw the overlay of practiced emotion that guarded while pretending to reveal. “So, Constable Stark and Detective Nafasi, is it?” he asked. “I’m told you have a message of some importance.”

“Quite tragic news, I’m afraid. Your fiancé, Rachel Cantara, has died.”

Whitford’s smile faded, but the eyes didn’t react at first. “What? How?”

Nafasi said, “We believe she was murdered sometime after arriving home last night. Disintegrated, with a weapon that then destroyed itself.”

Whitford’s eyes squeezed shut, and he stumbled backward against his desk, bracing himself with his hands. “Who did this?”

Dacia said, “That’s what I’m investigating.”

Whitford regained some of his composure and looked at Dacia. “I’m a prime suspect, of course. Being the fiancé.”

“I’d be insulting you if I told you differently.”

“Then let’s get your investigation of me out of the way, so you can find Rachel’s real killer.”

“What about your negotiations?”

“I’ll have to suspend them, at least for awhile. To get these charges behind me.”

“I’ve filed no charges.”

Whitford managed a grim smile. “‘Yet,’ was the unspoken word there. Besides, Constable Stark, I think a day or so to begin to come to terms with my loss isn’t unreasonable.” His voice faltered and he covered his face with his hand.

“Of course,” Dacia said. She wasn’t about to give Whitford a respite. If I’m making a false assumption, I can bring out my most sincere apologies, she thought. But I don’t think I am. She gestured toward Nafasi and he took out his interrogation kit. To Whitford, she said, “You’re entitled to a lawyer, of course.”

“I am a lawyer.” His hand sketched a chopping gesture. “And I won’t hear anything about having a fool for a client. I have nothing to hide.”

“Then you won’t mind if Detective Nafasi uses this device.”

“Of course not.”

Dacia nodded to Nafasi, who activated the interrogation kit. Its sensors, without touching Whitford, would monitor and record reactions ranging from pulse and respiration to brain-wave responses, as well as audio and video of him answering her questions. “Let’s get some base reactions,” Dacia told Whitford. “Name?”

“Lawrence Grayson Whitford.”

“Occupation?”

“Chief Negotiator, Lunar Government.”

“Lie to me. Where were you born?”

“Uh—San Francisco.”

Dacia turned to Nafasi, who nodded for her to go ahead with the real questioning. “Let’s get right to it. You understand you don’t have to speak to us and can end this questioning right now without prejudice?”

“I understand, Constable. You can dispense with all these legal niceties, and with your standard interrogation techniques. I’m already in a comfortable environment, and I know you’re not here to provide sympathy or empathy, or to be impartial.”

“Very well, then. Did you kill your fiancé Rachel Cantara, or arrange for her to be killed?”

“No.”

“Did you see her or speak with her last night?”

“No.”

“Why not? Most men would be eager to see their fiancé any chance they get.”

“It’s the press of negotiations,” Whitford said. “She understands . . . understood . . . that.”

“Were you taking part in negotiations last night?”

“No. They concluded late yesterday afternoon.”

“Yet you still didn’t go see Miss Cantara, or even speak with her.”

“I’m negotiating the future of the Lunar government. Violent reactions from either side are still a possibility. Even when I’m not actually taking part in talks, I have to prepare for them.”

Dacia asked, “So you were in preparation for today’s talks last night?”

“Yes.”

“Was anyone else helping you?”

“No.”

“Did you do anything we might be able to obtain a record of? Call anyone on the comm or order in a meal, for example?”

“I didn’t.”

Dacia glanced at Nafasi, who gave a slight head tilt that she knew meant Whitford was being truthful. But an equally slight raised eyebrow meant something else. Returning her attention to Whitford, she said, “I suppose those are all my questions for now. Given your situation, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to stay in town.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Constable. May I ask if you have any other leads in this case?”

“You may ask, Mr. Whitford. But I don’t have any answers I can give you right now.”

“I understand. Ongoing investigation and all that. If you’ll excuse me, I need to call Rachel’s mother. She’ll be heartsick over this. They were very close.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I hope you can continue negotiations soon. All of us are counting on you.”

Dacia waited until they’d left the Embassy Row building and made their way back down those wide steps before telling Detective Nafasi, “I saw that raised eyebrow. So if Whitford’s telling the truth, what was wrong back there?”

“He didn’t say anything that was a lie—at least as far as he remembers.”

“What does that mean, ‘as far as he remembers?’”

“It means,” Nafasi said, “that he’s had a memory snip.”

* * * *

Dacia worried that her hand comp wasn’t secure given possible Earth Alliance surveillance, so her and Nafasi’s next bike trip was to her office. She accessed her main comp there to get the names and locations of Tranquility City’s emotion shapers and memory snippers along with background on their employees—especially any legal difficulties they might have had.

“Look here,” she told Nafasi. “Just three such businesses in a population of four thousand.”

“We don’t have need of such things up here,” Nafasi said. “That’s mostly for Earthers with too much time and too much guilt.”

“Now, now—be kind. Although guilt is exactly what Whitford is hoping the snip will prevent us from seeing. Essentially, he can lie to us and be completely believable.”

“There’s an interesting fellow,” Nafasi said, pointing to the holo-record before them. “Haywood McCutcheon—left Tranquility City for Earth two days ago, apparently for good. Paid off all his creditors, shut down his store, and was on the next shuttle out. Quite a trick, given the political situation.”

“Makes it all the tougher to try to prosecute Whitford, if he really doesn’t remember the crime. He’ll come across to a jury as an innocent man being victimized by authority, especially since our physical evidence is lacking.”

Nafasi said, “We like our freedoms here on the Moon. We like government not interfering with business or violating our privacy. But we didn’t come here to make murder easier.”

“Maybe we can get some diplomatic help,” Dacia said. “I’ve got some back-channel contacts over there at Embassy Row. I think they’re about to come in handy.”

* * * *

Dacia met with Earth Ambassador Kasinda Obote on the Moon’s most hallowed ground. Tranquility Base stood untouched by human footsteps other than those Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin made during their two and a half hours walking on the lunar surface on July 20, 1969. A high wall of laminated glass surrounded the entire area to ensure it remained undisturbed.

Dacia was all too aware of her own breathing inside her spacesuit and the fact that only several layers of polymers, metals, and cloth kept her from her imagined fate of rupturing lungs and vaporizing blood. I guess I’m just not made for the outdoors, she thought.

“This site still inspires me,” Dacia said.

The descent stage of the spiderlike lunar module still sat upon the landscape Aldrin had described as “magnificent desolation.” He and Armstrong had left over one hundred items behind here, from a laser experiment measuring the distance between the Moon and the Earth to boots, a TV camera, a hammer, and bags filled with human waste. All of it remained as it had for 107 years, even the American flag that fell over as the lunar module’s ascent module’s lifted off. Whether it was more respectful to right it or leave it on the ground was an ongoing controversy.

Ambassador Obote said, “It’s good to see it before it becomes a tourist attraction.”

“I thought that was an Earth company wanting to do that?”

“It is. Now it’s negotiating to sell its rights to a Lunar company—depending, of course, on the outcome of the current political situation.”

“I hate to see that, either way.”

“Constable, I assume you’ve brought us to what might be considered neutral ground to talk about the possible charges against Secretary Whitford.”

It took a moment for Dacia to find her voice. She became aware of the drone of her spacesuit’s life-support systems and its constant circulation of air across her face. “How do you know about that?”

“Your Secretary Whitford is quite a skilled opponent, more skilled than I in rhetoric and playing to the masses. My only advantage is staying better informed. So get to your point, Constable.”

“An Earth citizen, Haywood McCutcheon, is crucial to my investigation.”

“I’m not going to extradite him. And I’ve told him that.”

“I’m—”

“‘Investigating a homicide.’ Yes, I know the phrase.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working for me much lately.”

Ambassador Obote said, “I sympathize with those who grieve for Miss Cantara. And I’m horrified that an Earth citizen would be connected with such a crime.”

“But not horrified enough to help me.”

“You have nothing to do with it, Constable. Nor do I. Dozens of people, in Tranquility and elsewhere, have died in this first conflict between human worlds. I grieve the dead, but must concern myself with the living.”

“So you would deal with a murderer. And to think I hesitated to approach you for fear of disrupting the negotiations.”

“You haven’t proven your case against Secretary Whitford, at least not to an outside observer. But I have something you would dearly love to get your hands on, I suspect.”

“Just what might that be?”

“When I spoke to Mr. McCutcheon, he told me he made a recording of the events he ‘snipped’—horrible term, that—from Secretary Whitford.”

“That’s the evidence I need to convict him!”

“And you’ll have it—after negotiations between Earth and Moon conclude.”

“Have you viewed the recording?”

“I have not. Nor do I intend to. We’re averting a possible war, here. The population of the Moon may be small, but high technology gives even small nations potentially great power.”

Dacia smiled and asked, “Are you so afraid of us?”

She could see the ambassador’s grim expression through his faceplate. “What we fear is the possibility of raining nuclear fire down upon people who were once our friends. ‘Genocide’ is such a nasty term.”

Dacia had no words. The flow of air within her spacesuit skimmed between the hairs on her arms and grazed the back of her neck, bringing a disconcerting chill.

Ambassador Obote continued: “In the meantime, I can deal with your man Whitford. He’s tough, but also patient and calm.”

“Doesn’t sound like the kind of man to commit a murder.”

“Then, Constable, you should commit your efforts toward resolving that dilemma. In the meantime, Secretary Whitford and I have a much larger dilemma to solve.”

Ambassador Obote began the return journey to the nearest airlock, leaving Dacia standing there staring at history and listening to her own breathing.

* * * *

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Whitford asked. His image on Dacia’s office phone showed him in a nondescript hallway, probably somewhere in Embassy Row. “I’m trying to get these negotiations to some sort of conclusion and you’re talking to Obote, telling him I’m a murder suspect?”

Dacia kept her features still as stone. “You are a murder suspect, Secretary Whitford. Besides, he already knew.”

“So you see what I’m up against here. I can’t stay ahead of what he knows—he’s a trained diplomat, and I’m not, and that puts me at a severe disadvantage.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“I’m dealing with Obote. I’m dealing with the Asian Non-Aligned Nations and the Martian ambassador, trying to get their support. And I’ve got Lunar activists who say I’d better get something signed and get those Alliance peacekeepers off our world.”

“You continue with your job, Secretary Whitford. I’ll continue with mine.”

“I need to put this behind me, Constable. I can’t allow myself to be distracted like this.”

“I agree. Because how much credibility will negotiations with a suspected murderer have? Ambassador Obote told me he can work with you, that he wanted me to postpone my investigation until after the negotiations are complete.”

“That bastard. He wants me to step right into a trap. He’ll bring us right to the threshold of an agreement, then—”

“Then,” Dacia said, “he destroys your credibility, all in an instant.”

“How could he do that?”

“Perhaps you should ask him about a memory recording he obtained from a certain Mr. McCutcheon.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“If you really don’t know,” Dacia said, “you won’t hesitate to ask.”

* * * *

A day later, Dacia found herself in Whitford’s office, next to his uncluttered desk again, standing alongside him and Earth Ambassador Kasinda Obote. Whitford held a small electronic chip in his hand. “Ambassador Obote was kind enough to provide me with the recording this Haywood McCutcheon gave him.”

Obote said, “You mean you badgered and threatened me until I agreed to provide it to you.”

Dacia stared at Whitford, then Obote, then back at Whitford. What in the world is each of them thinking? Does Whitford really think this recording is going to clear him? Does Obote really believe he can continue to work with a man revealed to be a killer?

Is that what Obote wants? Has Whitford walked into a trap after all?

Whitford raised his other hand and produced two more chips. “I’ve had the original copied. I believe we should all experience them together.”

“No,” Dacia said. “That’s not an experience I want to have, certainly not one I want to share.”

“What are you afraid of? That you’ll be proven wrong?”

“Really,” Obote said, “this is all quite irregular.”

Whitford said, “This whole thing is irregular. The Moon struggling to become a sovereign state, our home planet trying to suppress us—”

* * * *

“This isn’t the time for speeches, Grayson!”

“Neither is it the time for hesitation. I’ve been falsely accused, and I know it deep within my bones. I’m here to put this aside so that I can concentrate on negotiations and so the constable here can search for the real killer.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Dacia said. “How’s it work?”

Whitford placed his chip against one temple. “Right there—then just press.”

Dacia placed, then pressed:

A whirlwind of sensory impressions—the chill of the corridor outside Rachel’s room, the sight of it blurred, all sounds muted, the difference between memory and sharp reality.

And above all the most intense impression, Whitford’s concern about why she’d called him.

Dacia was still just aware enough of her own consciousness to admit her confusion—Rachel had called Whitford to her? And why was his predominant emotion concern rather than rage or some other emotion that could easily turn murderous?

Memory-Whitford buzzes at Rachel’s door as sensory impressions settle down, whether the hard surface of the door, the artificial illumination of the corridor, or the delighted screams of kids from the pool in the plaza fifteen levels down.

Dacia realizes Whitford isn’t armed.

Rachel opens the door and senses begin to whirl again, Rachel screaming at him, one hand pushing flat against Whitford’s chest: “You know how neglected I feel,” she says, her voice somehow distant, as if being heard through a filter or a poor transmission.

“Now, honey, just stay calm,” Whitford says, his demeanor that of her loving fiancé and an experienced diplomat.

Rachel’s the one with the gun; she’s pointing it at Whitford’s head, telling him, “You don’t have any time for me. I may as well shoot you as marry you if this is what I have to look forward to.”

Then it’s all more of a blur, Whitford trying to explain about diplomatic protocols, political realities, and Rachel doesn’t want to hear it, telling him her father ran away when she was a toddler, her mother’s never loved her, and now Whitford has no time for her, either.

Whitford protests that they’ve hashed this out before, and the fate of the negotiations rest upon him, the future of Lunar society itself, including their future children.

“To hell with our future children,” Rachel says, and places the gun on overload. Before it can destroy itself, though, she places its barrel to her head and fires.

Rachel disintegrates slowly, her agonized screams cut off as she turns to dust before Whitford.

Dacia reached up and tore the chip from her temple. Tears streamed down her face, perspiration down her back, and she was bent double, breathing as hard as if she’d just completed a marathon under Earth grav.

Next to her, Ambassador Obote had removed his chip as well and stood impassively next to her. “You’re a damn cool one,” Dacia told him.

He said, “Constable, I’ve negotiated peace between tribes that massacred one another with knives and spears. I went right to the scene after the Volgograd mini-nuke strike. I don’t deny what we saw was disturbing. But I’ve dealt with much worse.”

Whitford removed his chip. He stumbled backward and caught the edge of his desk to keep from falling. His features revealed lines they never had before; his eyes were haunted in a way Dacia doubted would ever fade. “I . . . loved her so much,” he said.

Dacia said, “We know you did. Do you remember everything now?”

“Only what I just saw. But I can figure out the rest, if it’s the same way I feel right now. I couldn’t bear the sight of her . . . killing herself. I knew trying to keep the negotiations going while grieving would be difficult enough, and to have that image before me, moment by moment—it would be too much.”

“And McCutcheon escaping to Earth?”

“Even if he experienced the recording, he couldn’t know the context. Just that a politician wanted something suppressed.”

Ambassador Obote said, “I had the impression he wasn’t taking any chances.” He went to Whitford and grasped his shoulder. “We’ll continue negotiations whenever you’re able. In fact, I’m going to recommend taking down the checkpoints and having our troops stand down.”

“Thank you,” Whitford said.

Obote excused himself and left. Whitford said, “I’ve been foolish. And selfish. And I failed Rachel.”

“Rachel was troubled,” Dacia said. “And you had bigger responsibilities.”

“I won’t after the Moon is free. No more diplomacy.”

“What will you do?”

“What I should’ve done before. Remember Rachel.”