RATMAN
Eamonn Murphy

 
THE MARKET DOME was crowded as usual, but Martin Egan had plenty of elbow room. As he paced down the aisles with his small assistants, the shoppers moved out of his way, pressing tight against the stalls on either side. It would have been nice to think this behaviour was out of respect for the uniform of a law enforcement officer; nice but untrue. Martin was a tall, solidly built man with wide shoulders and a grim set to his clean-shaven jaw that told the public he would brook no nonsense. But that wasn’t the reason they avoided him either. No. A visceral distaste for his little troop of aides, an ingrained, perhaps hereditary repugnance of the smart, fast, persistent and sharp-toothed mammals that were the tools of his trade, caused the crowd to withdraw.

Very few people liked rats.

Keep to heel, gang, he commanded.

‘Ratman,’ someone muttered. It was the common nickname for Mars Patrol Officers. There were Ratwomen too, but not many.

A sudden shout to his left. ‘Stop, thief!’

Martin’s helmet covered his ears, but the smart microphones built into it picked up every exterior noise and emphasised any that might signal a call to duty. He glanced up at the data screen just in front of his forehead and saw a red arrow pointing left. He swivelled and ran down the cross aisle in that direction. The ‘streets’ in all domes were laid out in a grid pattern, and so were the paths in the market dome. He immediately saw the source of the commotion. A portly proprietor came out from behind his stall and waved a futile fist at a skinny youth who was already fifty yards away.

Martin was as fit as any patrolman in his unit. He ran after the thief but knew he wouldn’t have to catch him.

Go get him!

The four rats darted forward. Seconds later, R1 nipped at the heels of the criminal, sharp teeth piercing the thin cloth of his shoe. R2 snapped at the other heel and held on. That did it. The youth yelped and dropped to the floor. Rolling over onto his back, he desperately kicked his leg to shake the rat off.

R2, let go.

Mission accomplished. No need to risk injuring the rat. Or the man.

‘Damn, filthy rats!’

Martin stood looking down at the kid, a dishevelled, lean, rangy young man with straw-coloured hair, wearing a cheap tunic and trousers which had seen better days. That mattered for appearance but not comfort. Mars domes were climate controlled and maintained at a cosy temperature for humans, so no one needed protective clothing. There was even an urban myth about one residential dome that had gone nudist. It wasn’t true.
Martin saw two meat pasties on the ground near the lad’s hand. He nodded. ‘Pick them up if you’re still hungry.’ They could hardly be sold now.

The youth grabbed them and hugged them to his chest as he stood up, darting glances left and right. A crowd had gathered nearby when the rats brought him down but were now losing interest.

Martin frowned. A man stealing food was a different matter than someone making off with expensive scent or jewellery, but it was still theft in his view. ‘Don’t try to run. The rats are faster. What’s your name?’

‘Kevin.’

‘Why are you stealing food?’

A shrug. ‘I’m hungry.’

‘Indent?’

‘Yeah. They didn’t give me a contract. Left me homeless and broke. Free, though,’ he said brightly, faking a joyful expression. His mouth turned down. ‘Free to starve.’

‘Servants R Us?’ asked Martin, already knowing the answer. A sullen nod told him he was correct.

Indentured labour was a mainstay of the Martian system. Fusion energy had made a surplus economy on Earth and solved many of the problems of the homeworld. Not all, because people were still people and born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. Fusion drives made interplanetary travel cheaper, and Mars quickly expanded from one dome full of research scientists to a fully-fledged colony. Many of the teeming billions on a still polluted homeworld were keen to seek new opportunities out in space but couldn’t afford the journey. There was plenty of work to do, and a labour force was needed. Indentured labour was an old solution. They served a three-year contract working for room and board to cover the cost of bringing them to Mars and then continued to work for wages in whichever factory, chemical works or mine had contracted them. They managed.
Then the super-rich came, the billionaires, because the low gravity of Mars meant less wear and tear on the body and probably a longer life. They paid for special luxury domes to be built, enclaves just for them, and the Council was glad to welcome the new domes and tax them, but not too much. Then, when everything was ready for them, the billionaires came in person, and they wanted servants. Servants R Us supplied them. But when three years were up, they renewed the contracts for obedient boys and attractive girls, or vice versa depending on the client.

One glance at Kevin told Martin that he was neither obedient nor lovely.

‘Follow me, kid.’

‘Am I under arrest?’

‘For two meat pasties? No.’ Martin didn’t add that if it were up to him, arrest would happen. He didn’t agree with the soft new policy, but he wasn’t in charge, and, above all, he obeyed orders. ‘Come on. I’ll take you somewhere you can get cleaned up and have a meal and a bed for a few nights. Then you can look for a job.’

Kevin didn’t move. ‘Um, patrolman. The rats.’

‘Oh, yeah. Sorry.’ R1 and 2 were still poised at the lad’s feet, ready to pounce in case he ran.

Back off, R1, R2. Heel. Martin was strict about calling his rats by number only, no names. They were a tool, and he wouldn’t get all anthropomorphic and soppy about them.

They resumed their guard position by his ankles, and Martin strode off confidently, scanning the crowd and listening for more alerts. There were still people who preferred thieving to working. There always would be.

The large oval helmet he wore was partly protective but also contained the cybernetic microcircuitry to send messages to the rats, which they received through a tiny chip in their heads. He thought in English, but the rats didn’t hear that, of course. The AI translated it into some simple command they could comprehend. The technology had been developed for use with dogs shortly before dogs had been wiped out by the plague of 2044, along with wolves, coyotes, jackals and all other members of the genus Canis. No one knew where the virus came from. Most presumed a secret government lab had got it wrong again. Internet rumour said it was a crazy cat lover. Either way, Canis died out, and a partnership that had lasted 30,000 years came to an end. Then, it turned out that rats were even smarter but not as cuddly. That made them perfect for law enforcement.
As usual, the crowd moved aside for Martin, and Kevin trailed in his wake, albeit a few yards back and keeping a wary eye on the rats. Martin glanced upward at the yellow-brown Martian sky, which could turn pink, orange or even red in a dust storm. It was a quiet day out there.

They exited the market dome and took a tunnel to residential dome 6, which was nearby.

‘The slum,’ said Kevin when he figured out their destination.

‘Did you expect The Grand Hotel? It’s a cheap rent district, and Granny Fairclough likes to keep her costs low. Come on, it’s just down here.

Martin stopped before a low, rectangular building of rough sand bricks with a thin plastic door on which he rapped once. He then entered a narrow corridor with doors off either side and a rounded archway at the end from which the pleasant odour of baking bread wafted towards them.

‘Hey, Granny! I brought you another waif and stray.’ This was his third visit to the charity, and the new policy had only been in place a few weeks.

A short, well-rounded woman in a simple smock came bustling towards them, removing a food hygiene hair net from her grey curls. ‘Oh, it’s you, Martin.’ She stopped and looked up at Kevin, her blue eyes twinkling. ‘Jupiter, what an ugly brute! Servants R Us?’

Martin smiled at the look on the boy’s face. ‘Yup. Kevin here ain’t pretty, and I bet he has a rebellious streak as wide as Olympus Mons. They didn’t renew his contract, and he’s hungry enough to steal pasties from Fat Albert’s stall. Can I leave him with…’

‘Patrolman Egan. Come in, please.’

The squawk in his helmet interrupted them. Granny cocked her head to one side. ‘Trouble?’

Martin nodded. ‘Egan here, HQ. What’s up?’

‘Report to space dock immediately. Information was received that an incoming ship might have illicit cargo. Bay 2, The Rusty Galleon. Karen will meet you there with extra rats. Make haste, Martin. This could be serious.’

‘On my way, Despatch.’ He turned back to Kevin. The youth was watching him and had a strange, thoughtful expression. ‘Be good. Give Granny any trouble and I’ll throw you in the clink faster than a sandstorm comes up. Gotta go.’

Spaceships landed on a flat plateau a mile or so distant from the main cluster of Marsport domes. The space dock was a large dome with two tunnels stretching out to the landing field. Ships would land horizontally, like planes, and then taxi slowly up the tunnel, through a huge airlock and then on into the sealed dome. There were only about three arrivals a week as yet, and it wasn’t worth having a separate force of customs officers, so Patrolmen did the duty.

Martin took the Tubeway to Spaceport. It was a rolling road encased in curved, translucent plasteel, one belt going in either direction, and there were no riders except him. The Tubeway moved at five miles an hour, and he jogged along it, doubling that speed. Six minutes after hitting the road, he reported to the space dock office, where Administrator Paul Watkins and his assistant ran the port and operated the airlocks remotely. A small crew of casual workers was summoned to unload cargo when a ship arrived. They had not been called in yet, but Patrol Officer Karen Ojiri was waiting for Martin. A solidly built woman of African heritage, she had been in his cadet group years earlier, and they respected each other even if they weren’t friends. Ten rats accompanied her. She nodded in greeting but said nothing.

Watkins came out of the office. A middle-aged man with greying hair, lean and slightly stooped, he greeted Martin politely but with a worried expression. The career bureaucrat didn’t like trouble. Eyeing the rats warily, he pointed across the dome to a large torpedo shape a hundred yards off. The wings it used for landing in the atmosphere were now folded away.

‘That’s her. The Rusty Galleon. Cute names these free traders think up, eh? She’s not a regular here; it’s the first time as far as I know. The cargo manifest says they carry a few luxury goods from Earth—watches, jewellery, silks—and thirty passengers—indents for the corporations. You really think they’re smugglers?’

Martin shrugged. ‘Patrol received some sort of tip-off. Duty bound to check. Stay in your office and keep an eye out. If you hear or see any commotion, call for backup, eh?’ Martin set off across the concrete floor of the hangar, Karen by his side and the rats walking to heel as usual.

‘I’m glad they sent you, Karen. If this does get hairy, I need an old hand I can rely on.’

‘Who are you calling old?’ She thumped him playfully on the shoulder and then looked serious. ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Martin.’

‘Woman’s intuition?’

‘Maybe.’ They had reached the ship. Its gleaming silvery surface loomed overhead. They walked under it and found a lowered ramp on the other side. A short, stocky man with thick, muscular arms and a shaved head dressed in a sky blue overall stood at the foot of the ramp. He frowned at them, then glared at the rats.

‘Patrol? I’m waiting for the unloading crew. You’re not needed.’

‘Not wanted, maybe, but we are needed. We’re here to inspect your cargo, Mister…?’

‘Lundt. Peter Lundt. There’s no need. I posted the manifest. The office has all the details.’ He shifted from foot to foot, and his mouth twitched. He stood blocking the access ramp.

‘We still need to check. Step aside, please.’

Lundt didn’t move. ‘You and the lady can come aboard, but not them.’ He pointed at the rats. ‘I won’t have those filthy things on board my ship.’

Karen took a step back and drew her stun gun. Projectile weapons were strictly banned on Mars, as a crack in any dome would be a serious issue. Martin marshalled the ten rats in a phalanx between him and Lundt. ‘Step aside.’

The trader’s face reddened. ‘I’ll escort you. But keep those damned vermin away from me!’ Lundt turned one hundred and eighty degrees and stomped up the ramp in obvious ill temper. Martin followed with the rats behind him, and Karen Ojiri came after them. At the top of the ramp, he had to stoop slightly to get through the hatch. He found himself in a large hold stacked with containers—wooden boxes that were a metre in every dimension. They were neatly piled three high, the straps that had held them in place now lying on the floor. The boxes themselves were valuable cargo. There was no wood on Mars, and this was a clever way of importing it.

Martin walked past the nearest ones and went to the back of the hold. He pointed to a stack at random. ‘Take off the top one and undo the lid. I want to look inside.’

Lundt shook his head. ‘Do it yourself. I’m not your lackey.’

They could have forced him at gunpoint. Not worth the hassle. ‘Karen. Give me a hand, please.’

Together they heaved the top box down. The label said it weighed a hundred kilos, which meant it was only thirty-eight kilos on Mars. The lid was nailed shut. Martin was about to bother Lundt again when Karen pointed to a tool rack behind him. Several screwdrivers, spanners and a nail bar hung there. He grabbed the nail bar and jammed it under the lid, levering it carefully open.

Inside were bolts of cloth laid neatly on top of one another. Mars had no cotton and no animals. The colony could barely feed itself with the few agricultural domes, and building more was the top priority for the local government. One day, they might have cotton and even sheep, but for now, all the material for shoes and clothing had to be imported. As Martin picked up the top layer of material, the rats at his feet began to twitch their noses excitedly. Rats had two thousand smell receptor genes, about seven hundred more than dogs, and more olfactory sensory cells than any other mammalian species. Martin heard an excited voice in his headphones as the rats’ thoughts, stimulated by the scent emanating from the crate, were translated by the cybernetic helmet.

Drugs. Drugs. Contraband.

‘Bingo,’ said Karen, receiving the same message through her own helmet.

Martin burrowed deeper into the crate, throwing expensive cotton on the floor. He soon located the small plastic packets of orange powder.

Karen gasped. ‘Supersmack! Jupiter, this is no small-time operation.’ Supersmack was the deadliest drug in the solar system. A user was completely addicted after one hit and would kill his mother to get the next one. It was also very expensive.

Martin’s eyes narrowed. ‘This isn’t for the streets. This is for the enclaves. The billionaires.’

 He turned and looked for Lundt. The cargo master had edged quietly away from them and was now at the far end of the bay. He suddenly turned and ran forward to another section of the ship. Before Martin could think of it, Karen dispatched four rats in pursuit. They were fast but not fast enough. Lundt jumped through a hatch and slammed it shut behind him. The rats stopped, unsure what to do, then sat.

‘Damn!’ she said.

‘Don’t panic; we’ll get him.’ Martin looked around the cargo hold. ‘There must be fifty crates here. Not a huge cargo.’

‘The manifest said there are thirty passengers,’ said Karen. ‘About right for a small vessel like this. Their cosy compartment will be further up the ship.’

Martin restrained a smile at her sarcasm. Passengers to Mars were usually indents who went steerage class, thirty or more hard bunks packed together in a small hold.

‘How many crew, you reckon?’

‘Five, probably. Not many more. They might not all know about the drugs, but Lundt certainly does. He ran. This might get nasty. I’ll call for backup.’

‘Do.’ Martin drew his stun pistol and headed up the corridor after Lundt with all fourteen rats preceding him. They stopped at the hatch he had closed. Martin thumbed the green button to open it, and nothing happened. Locked.

He sighed at the uselessness of it. The smugglers had been caught red-handed. They couldn’t go through with the deal now, and they couldn’t escape. What was the point of this messing about? There was an intercom next to the door control, and he pressed the button for that, leaned forward and spoke loudly and clearly.

‘This is Officer Martin Egan of Mars Patrol. A large quantity of illegal drugs has been found on this ship, and all the crew are under arrest on the charge of smuggling. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ The standard spiel done, he added, ‘There’s nowhere to run. I advise you to give up now.’

Karen appeared behind him. ‘Help is on the way.’ She looked at the sealed hatch. ‘I suppose we could order a laser cutter to get through that or break into another part of the ship.’

Martin shook his head. ‘They’re going to go down fighting, Karen. It’s the death sentence for drug smuggling to Mars. They have nothing to lose.’

A loud clunk from the hatch mechanism made him jump. He took a step back. ‘Maybe I was wrong.’ He waved Karen back and retreated a few paces himself. Both had their stun pistols at the ready, and the rats gathered about their feet.

The hatch swung inward, and several people crowded forward, more behind them. Lundt wasn’t there. In the lead was a skinny, dark-haired teenage girl dressed in a cotton fleece and blue jeans. Her eyes were wide, staring, and she was grinning madly. Foam flecked her lips.

Behind her stood a large, well-muscled young man in a check shirt and canvas work trousers. He wore the same expression. More people crowded forward, and they all looked insane. Someone at the back laughed maniacally. Most were muttering or swearing, looking confused and angry. Then they saw the uniforms of Mars Patrol.

‘Shit!’ Martin rarely swore. ‘The bastards have dosed the passengers with supersmack!’

Karen backed away fast. ‘They’re innocents! We can’t…!’

‘No choice.’ Martin squeezed the trigger on his stun gun, hitting the teenage girl with a bright bolt of energy. She collapsed. Another blast took out the large man, and when he fell, that slowed the rest. Three more shots got the ones just coming through the hatch. They folded over it and blocked it, at least for a time. The frenzied crowd behind would just step on them to get by. It couldn’t be helped. Martin backed away, still firing. Karen used her own weapon, and the heap of stunned bodies grew, but the ones behind were still coming.

Martin pressed his trigger again, and nothing happened. ‘Out of charge!’ Karen’s stun gun fizzled out a few seconds later. The weapons carried a limited number of shots, about eight, which was plenty for normal use on the streets. Not here. There were now thirty crazed passengers on board The Rusty Galleon, and half of them were still active. They would rend the patrol officers limb from limb if they could get to them.

‘Help is on the way!’ Karen yelled.

It would be too late. The remaining passengers stepped over the prone bodies and advanced warily down the corridor. In seconds they would realise that the stun pistols were empty and charged. Only one option. Martin took a step back and gave the command.

Rats, forward!

Ten rats that had been hanging back by Karen surged forward and arrayed themselves across the corridor in front of the passengers, who paused.

Advance one yard.

The rats moved forward again, and the crowd scuttled back, cursing and mumbling. Martin guessed that in their paranoid state the usual wariness of so-called vermin was elevated. They weren’t sure what to do, but he doubted they would retreat. The rats were repugnant but not really much of a threat. This Mexican stand-off wouldn’t last.

‘I hate bloody rats!’ A large man stepped up and raised a booted foot to stamp down on the brown opponents. He missed, and the target rat darted aside and leapt onto his calf, biting deep. He yelled. But his example had encouraged the rest, and they surged forward.
Attack at will!

The rats obeyed, but their instincts for self-preservation still worked. They darted forward and nipped at the feet and ankles of the advancing passengers, making them yell and kick but not stopping them. Martin drew his truncheon and joined the fray.

The big man in the lead stretched out his right arm, hand groping for the patrolman’s neck. Martin swung the truncheon sideways and heard the crack of a forearm breaking. He jumped sideways and struck at the shoulder of a young woman with blonde hair. She screamed and fell, blocking the others for a few seconds.

Karen jumped forward, struck a man in the leg with her own truncheon and stepped back. She repeated the action. Between the truncheon blows and the rats, they had sown fear and confusion, aided by the fact that the Terrans were clumsy in low gravity, not used to it.

Karen jumped in again. A man grabbed her arm as she swung the truncheon and then leapt on her, bringing her down.

Shit!

Martin ordered all the rats to attack the man on top of Karen and stepped forward to pull him off. Then he went down himself as someone else tackled him from behind. Now, both officers were on the floor with the crowd attacking them.

Another big man stamped viciously on Martin’s head. His cyberhelmet protected him from serious injury, but the blow still made his brain rattle.

There was only one thing to do.

Code red: frenzy.

The cybernetic helmet sent out a special signal that triggered a berserker fury in the rats. Whereas before they had been nipping and retreating cautiously, preserving their own lives, now they went mad. They leapt high, bit hard and hung on. The big man went down with a savage beast gripping his left thigh and two more hanging on his right arm. The blonde girl screamed as a large rat bit into her chin and hung there like a scraggly brown beard. Others in the mob yelled and screamed as well. Hell hath no fury like a rat in berserker mode.

Four of the Terrans were on the floor now, the eight rats that survived savaging them mercilessly. The rest of the passengers turned and ran. Martin scrabbled to his feet and hauled Karen up off the floor. The rats could turn on them just as easily.

Time to stop them.

‘Code red: Kill switch.’ Martin spoke the command to make it absolutely clear. The cybernetic helmet sent out a pulse to the tiny chip in each rat’s brain. The chips exploded. Not spectacularly—rat brains did not decorate the walls—but enough to kill them instantly. They dropped away from the people they had been attacking. The Terrans stood up and ran back down the corridor to join their comrades.

One second later, booted feet raced up the ramp and five Mars Patrol Officers dashed heroically into the cargo deck.

‘Here’s the cavalry,’ sighed Karen. She leaned against a bulkhead and raised an arm weakly to greet their comrades. She pointed down the corridor. ‘That crowd are dosed up with supersmack. Crazy but innocent. Stun them and call for medical help!’

Martin added, ‘The crew is down there somewhere as well. They may be armed.’ Bruised and battered, he walked back to the exit ramp to get away from the blood on the deck and the dead rats. His dead rats. He would have to requisition more.

As he stumbled down the ramp, shaking his head to clear it, a movement caught his eye.
Lundt. Racing for the exit. Somehow, he had found another way off the ship and was beating a hasty retreat.

No. He wouldn’t get away.

Martin ran down the ramp, shouting. Lundt looked over his shoulder and ran faster. Martin drew his stun pistol and pointed, then cursed as he remembered it was out of charge. Lundt must have been on Mars before because he headed straight for the tubeway platform. He ran onto the Marsdome walkway and kept running. There were no other passengers. They were too busy being arrested or nursing their rat bites. Martin gave chase.

He chinned his radio control. ‘Egan to control. Fugitive on Port to Dome tunnel. Have officers waiting at the exit.’

No answer. He did it again. ‘Egan to control…’

Silence. Damn it, his radio must have been damaged when the big lout stamped on his helmet. Well, he’d just have to do the job himself.

He focused on controlling his breathing and running efficiently. Lundt was in good shape but not a natural runner, and Martin was gaining on him. But he had a head start. Martin felt a pain in his ankle that worsened as he ran, a result of the melee on the ship, no doubt. He would remember The Rusty Galleon for a while, he decided, and not fondly. Lundt was at the exit doorway into Marsdome now. He spared a second to look back and give a cheeky wave before sprinting through the automatic doors and turning left up Fifth Avenue. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.

Martin dashed through the same doorway and looked left. Lundt was still running, dodging through the crowd. But now there were other people about. Citizens of Mars.
Martin pointed and shouted. ‘Stop that man! He’s a wanted criminal!’

Some in the crowd looked at him and then stared in the direction indicated. They hesitated. Criminals were dangerous after all.

Suddenly, a lean, lanky youth dived in a sporting tackle at Lundt’s legs and brought him down. Lundt struggled, but the other man had the advantage of surprise and seemed very determined. He kept Lundt face down and twisted both arms behind him while kneeling on his back. Lundt writhed helplessly, cursing all the while.

Martin stepped forward, snapped cuffs on the pinned wrists and pulled the smuggler roughly upright. ‘You’re under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Lundt stopped struggling. His shoulders slumped in defeat. Martin turned to the Martian who had apprehended him.

‘Thanks for your help, citiz… You!’

Kevin grinned. ‘Hello again, officer.’

Martin looked him up and down. He was clean, and although slightly dishevelled from his rumpus with Lundt, had tidy clothes. Granny did good work. ‘Got a job yet?’

Kevin looked skyward in exasperation. ‘Not yet. I will.’

The nearest patrol station was north of the Dome at the Port walkway terminal. Martin turned in that direction, keeping a firm grip on Lundt, then looked over his shoulder. ‘You might consider the Patrol, you know. Cadets get room and board and a small stipend while training. After that, you won’t get rich, but, hey, you can probably afford all the meat pasties you need.’

‘The Patrol.’ Kevin looked thoughtful.

‘See you around, kid.’ Martin strode away. He would have to get his helmet fixed and pick up some more small furry assistants. A busy day, but that was life as a Ratman. All go.