The Pandora Directive

  The Pandora Directive

  Aaron Conners

  The room could have been the interior of the world’s largest garage. Piles of components and shards of strange alien materials were scattered everywhere. In the very centre was what must have been the fairly intact remains of the spacecraft that had crashed at Roswell. It wasn’t entirely dismantled, and I could still see the basic shape. The ship looked to be in excellent condition, considering that it had crash-landed. It wasn’t saucer-shaped at all, but looked more like a big, metal boomerang. I took a walk around the ship, not seeing anything particularly overwhelming—except, of course, for the fact that it had come from another world.

  As I looked around, I had the same sensation I always felt around snakes, except now I couldn’t see or hear it. I just knew it was there somewhere, waiting. Out of the corner of my eye, I swore I saw something move. I spun around and stared at one of the corpses. Had it twitched?

  This book is dedicated to Gail Peterson (for the motivation); Chris Jones (for inspiration); Rob Peterson (for good Scotch and smoked); Mike, Jeanette, Bruce, Ivar, and Steve (for miscellaneous banter, etc.); and especially for my sweet Krissant for all the above and more.

  Prologue

  The world took a bullet in the head and now Old San Francisco floats face down in a red sea sky. No one ever really explained what happened. But now the heavens above are a bloody blanket, and the air we breathe is thick with radiation.

  This year we bid adieu to the ozone layer and enact a time reversal. At least we don’t have to reset our watches. The banks still open for business at nine, only now it’s 9:00pm. The Surgeon General decided that sunlight was becoming almost as hazardous as cigarette smoking and real butter. It doesn’t matter to me. I’ve never kept regular hours.

  My name’s Tex Murphy and I’m a PI. Somebody somewhere screwed up and sent me here about a century too late. I should be driving a 38 Packard with a running board and whitewalls. Instead, I fly a 38 Lotus speeder. At least I wear the right uniform—soft felt fedora, silk tie, rumpled overcoat, and wing tips.

  It’s April 2043, forty five years since World War III came and went. New San Francisco rose from the ashes, but it was reborn without any of the style or flavour of the old city. So I hang my hat at the Ritz Hotel, in a particularly run-down section of Old San Francisco. I’m one of the few non-mutants in this part of town, but that doesn’t bother me. Some of my best friends are mutants. Besides, the rent is cheap and my apartment is big enough to hold my office.

  Nothing much has changed since I moved to the city 20 years ago. All I ever need is a good bottle of bourbon, a fresh pack of Luckies, a decent haircut, and one more case.

  Chapter One

  Chelsee Bando looked deep into her vodka tonic. “I don’t know... maybe Phoenix.” I flicked my thumbnail across the match tip and winced as a kernel of phosphorus lodged under the nail, then burst into flame. “So you want to move to the desert.” I lit my cigarette and took a deep drag. “Do you think you’re ready to face the danger and excitement of central Arizona?”

  Chelsee looked up at me with those frosty blue eyes. As usual, my thighs quivered. She took a slow sip of Stohli and shrugged. “I’ve got an old college friend down there. We’ve kept in touch... she says it’s nice.”

  “I can imagine. Square dancin’, ten gallon hats, huntin’ armadillos... .” Chelsee cut in, “... macho yokels with names like Tex.”

  I leaned back and grinned. Chelsee smiled back, almost stubbornly. We

  raised our glasses and toasted, silently.

  “OK, so why leave San Francisco? A city so wonderful that I choke up

  whenever I talk about it.”

  Chelsee ran her finger tip around the rim of her glass in a way that made

  me quite jealous. “Is not here that’s the problem. It’s just... I feel like I’m

  stuck. Except, of course, for slowly sliding into another age bracket.” “Listen, Chelsee. Age is nothing. It’s all in the attitude. Look at me. You

  don’t see me moaning about being 28, do you?”

  She smiled despite herself and turned toward the window. “Oh, please. If

  you’re 28, I’m a nun.”

  I leaned forward and crossed my arms on the table. “Well, like I said, it’s

  totally subjective. I think you’re ageing very gracefully. You don’t look a day

  over thirty.”

  Chelsee turned back and gave me one of those looks. “I turn 30 tomorrow.”

  My collar suddenly felt a bit warmer. “Did I say 30? I meant 26. I always

  get those two mixed up.”

  Chelsee turned back toward the window. I wasn’t sure if I’d actually

  offended and her or if she was just trying to make me feel like an idiot. Either

  way, it made me want talk fast. “Look, Chelsee, the bottom line is, if you

  weren’t a nun, I’d chase you up to my love nest and... ”

  “Spare me the details, Tex.”

  Chelsee glanced from the window directly to her watch. “It’s getting

  late—I’m going home.”

  She got up and out of the booth and slipped on her coat. I tried to get

  her to look at me. She was even more difficult to read today than usual. As

  for me, if I’d had a tail, I would have been wagging it.

  “Big date, eh?”

  Chelsee threw her purse over her shoulder and looked down at me in a

  distinctly caustic manner. “Oh, yeah. Cary Grant... and a pint of Haagen

  Dazs. Hold me down.” She picked up her vodka tonic, drained it, then

  slammed it back to the table. “See you later.”

  I watched her walk to the door, hoping she would pause, turn, and throw

  me a wink.

  She didn’t. I turned back to the table and buried the live end of my Lucky

  in the teeming ashtray.

  “What a schmuck!”

  I looked over to see Rook Garner swirled around on his usual bar-stool,

  smugly reclining on his elbows—a wrinkly little bastard in sensible shoes. How

  could I have missed the psychosomatic scent of vinegar in the air? Suddenly,

  I felt defensive. “What?!”

  Rook shook his head and turned back to his beer mug. “You’re the PI.

  Figure it out for yourself.”

  Behind the bar, Louie showed off his big, ugly grin and idly polished a

  shot glass. “How are things going with Chelsee, Murphy?”

  “Why? You thinking of making your move, Louie?”

  “No. Just wondered how she was holding up—big Three-oh and all.” Rook barked at me over his shoulder. “If I were your age, I’d already had

  a ring on that girl’s finger. You would too, if you had any sense.” Louie chuckled and said the shot glass under the counter. “Rook seems

  to think you don’t know how to romance a lady.”

  A snorting sound came from rocks general direction. “He doesn’t know

  squat!”

  A gravelly voice piped up from the end of the bar. “Maybe she just doesn’t

  like him like that.”

  A lavishly powdered hooker was curled around a cracked vinyl seat, looking

  to trade her soul for spirits, if she could find a taker. She took a drag off a thin, brown cigarette crammed into a cheap, plastic holder. “Love or money. Got to be one or the other. Nothing personal, but he ain’t no Adonis.” She

  paused to take a slug of quadruple malt. “Probably too old for her, too.” Too old? I was stunned. Rook jumped in. “I was 32 years older than my

  second wife. And she was a real beauty.”

  “Age don’t m
atter... unless you ain’t got two dimes to rub together. This

  fella don’t like he can support himself, not to mention the girl.” The hooker picked up her drink and sashayed away from the bar. I pulled

  another lucky out of the crumpled pack. Being assaulted by a hooker—or

  Rook, for that matter—didn’t really bother me, but I was being stupid, chasing

  after a kid like Chelsee. I was speeding toward my 40th birthday like a derailed

  train, though a dab of white-out on my birth certificate had made that my own

  little secret.

  I tossed back the rest of my bourbon. My bladder suddenly felt like a

  medicine ball. I slid out of the booth and tipped my hat to Louie and Rook.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to powder my nose. You know how

  it is for us older guys.”

  As I left the men’s room a few minutes later, I passed a figure sitting

  motionless in a dark corner of the cafe. This man’s face was obscured, but I

  could feel his eyes on me as I walked back to my booth. When I sat down, I

  kept him casually in my peripheral vision. Every few seconds, his arm would

  lift and a tiny light would flare up, followed by a stream of smoke. Even from

  across the room, there was no mistaking the smell—Cubanas. Expensive, and

  hard to get in this part of the world. They were the best smoke a man could

  have—rich, full-bodied. My mouth watered ever-so-slightly.

  Despite the cigar smoker’s evident taste, I don’t like people watching me.

  I turned to the window and looked out into the street. My mind wandered

  over past few months, since the incident on the Moon Child. My last case had

  almost been my last case. But that’s another story. Someday I’ll Find a Watson

  and have him start cataloguing all of my exciting adventures. Of course, it’ll

  be tough to keep him supplied with enough good material, not to mention a

  salary. Business had picked up for a while, but now I was between jobs. I

  spent all my money, and I was behind again on my bills. The Cubana certainly

  smelled good. My nose felt like it was wrapping around my face, like a flower

  turning toward the Sun.

  “The gentleman in the corner wants to know what you’re drinking.”

  Glenda’s pencil was poised over her notepad. She chewed her gum furiously,

  sounding like someone twisting bubble-wrap.

  “He wants to buy me a drink?”

  She shrugged without looking at me. A sudden thought. “Uh, he isn’t,

  well, you know... is he?”

  “Nah. but he smells like money.”

  “Hmm. In that case, I’ll have bourbon.”

  “Jim, Jack, rocks, water, soda, or neat?”

  “No, Yes, no, no, no, yes.”

  Glenda nodded, made a loud popping sound, and walked off. The stranger

  in the corner didn’t move. I packed another Lucky Strike and fired it up. It

  tasted nothing like a Cubana.

  The waitress returned and slid a partially filled glass in front of me. I

  picked it up, swirled it round, then raised it toward the dark corner. The man

  motioned slightly with his hand as a fresh stream of smoke emerged from the

  shadows. I took a sip—first the smell, then the burning in my throat, finally

  the warmth in my belly. Drawing deeply on my smoke, I turned back to the

  window.

  It was late. People passed by the bar without glancing in, each one going

  somewhere important. A leggy redhead strode past, with pouty lips and

  bouncing hair. I swivelled involuntary, tweaking my lower back and almost

  spilling my precious bourbon. A voice brought me back just as quickly. “How is the bourbon?”

  I looked up. The man’s face was unfamiliar, but the cigar in his hand was

  an odd friend. He was of indeterminate age—probably a little older than you

  think.

  “I’m convinced that God himself invented bourbon, thank you. Care to

  join me?”

  He nodded, placed his coat and hat carefully on the rack by the booth,

  then lowered himself on to the vinyl seats across from me. “I hope my cigar

  doesn’t bother you. It’s terrible habit.”

  “I’ve always wanted to make a terrible habit of smoking Cubanas. Unfortunately, it’s an addiction I can’t afford.”

  “Ah... A man who knows his tobacco. My name is Gordon Fitzpatrick.

  It’s a pleasure indeed to meet you, sir.” Fitzpatrick reached across the table

  to shake my hand. His hands were soft and unscarred—hands that had never

  done anything more strenuous than pick up a cup of tea.

  “My name’s Murphy. Call me Tex if you like.”

  I looked down at my glass. It was almost empty. “Do you often buy

  bourbon for complete strangers?”

  “Only occasionally. Since I can’t drink, myself, I sometimes it enjoy the

  vicarious experience. Besides, you looked like you could use a drink.” “People have been telling me that for years.” I drained my glass. Fitzpatrick watched, amused, as the last few drops hit my tongue. On cue,

  Glenda arrived with another glass. I looked down at the glass, then up at my

  companion. “If I were a woman, I’d think you were trying to soften me up.

  What is it you want, Mr Fitzpatrick?”

  With a slight smile, Fitzpatrick ground the Cubana stub into the ashtray

  until it quit smoking. “I like a plain speaker, Mr Murphy. Let’s be frank with

  each other. I’m looking for an old acquaintance of mine. A Dr Thomas

  Malloy. Until recently, he lived in the Ritz Hotel, not far from here. Do you

  know of him?”

  The Ritz had a pretty high turnover, and I’d never made up point of getting

  to know the other tenants. It was the kind of place where people came when

  they didn’t want to be found. The name didn’t ring a bell, but then I’d never

  been good with names. “Sorry. Never heard of the guy.”

  “Ah... that’s a shame. It’s quite important that I find him.” Fitzpatrick

  rose slowly and reached for his coat and hat. He was either a polished bluffer,

  or knew when to cut his losses. Either way, he smoked Cubanas. He also

  seemed to need help and, after sitting across from him for five minutes, I

  desperately wanted one of his cigars. I decided to offer my services. “Look, Mr Fitzpatrick, I’m a licensed private investigator. I also live at the

  Ritz Hotel. If you’re looking for help, maybe I could find this Dr Malloy for

  you.”

  Holding his coat and hat, Fitzpatrick lowered himself back into the booth.

  His face was lit up like a hundred watt bulb. “A private detective! Delightful!

  I didn’t know that one could make a living as a flatfoot in the twenty-first

  century.”

  “Well now, I didn’t say I made a living at it. I just got a licence.” “So, you only gumshoe part-time? What else do you do?” “Well, drinking takes up a lot of my time. Avoiding bill collectors and the

  IRS also keeps me fairly busy.”

  Fitzpatrick seemed delighted. “Well, Mr Murphy, it seems that we could

  do each other some good. I need assistance and you, apparently, need income.

  Perhaps we should shake on it—or would you like the details first?” This seemed too good to be true, so it probably was. But Fitzpatrick

  seemed more than willing to solve at least some of my money problems.

  Reaching into my overcoat, I found a dog eared, coffee-stained business card.

  I apologetically handed it to
my future client.

  “I prefer to do business in my office. Why don’t we meet there tomorrow

  morning? Bring anything that might help. We’ll wait to discuss payment, but

  I think you’ll find my rates reasonable. In fact, if you bring a few of those

  Cubanas along, I’ll give you the special Friends of Tex discount.”

  Chapter Two

  “This is wonderful.” the old man looked around my digs like a kid at a petting zoo. “I feel as though I were in one of the detective movies I enjoyed as a boy.”

  I nodded, as conversationally as possible. Fitzpatrick had knocked on my office door during a period of valuable REM sleep, and I wasn’t fully conscious. Fortunately, he’d brought along a box of Cubanas and, together with a cup of thick coffee, high-quality nicotine for breakfast was bringing me around. My future client seemed as chipper as a poker player holding a royal flush.

  “Why, I’d half-expected to see the name Samuel Spade printed on the door.”

  “I always believe that setting and and the ones I essential to reaching a desirable clientele.”

  “Without a doubt.” he brushed a piece of lint from his hat. He seemed to enjoy my film noir philosophy as much as I was enjoying his cigars. I took another puff.

  “I don’t know about you, Mr Fitzpatrick, but I’ve always felt I belonged in the Thirties. 1930s, that is. Ever since I can remember. When the other kids were locked on to Sesame Street Interactive, I was reading Hammett and Chandler. Real paper books, of course.”

  “Naturally.”

  “So... now I’m a private detective.”

  Fitzpatrick seemed almost envious. “It must be quite exciting.”

  I took another long draw of the Cubana. “Well, let’s just say it’s a good thing I enjoy the work; it sure as hell doesn’t pay very well.”

  Fitzpatrick nodded sympathetically and reach delicately inside his coat. “That must be my cue.” his hand emerged holding a calfskin chequebook. My heart fluttered. I tried not to breathe heavily.

  “I charge $500 a day, plus expenses. Contingent, of course, upon my taking

  7 your case.” Fitzpatrick didn’t hesitate. “That seems perfectly acceptable. I suppose you need me to give you some details.” I leaned back in my chair and formed a perfect smoke ring. “Please.”