The Soul Cage E-Book

David Booker

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The inventor of the world's first teleportation device has been savagely murdered, and Global Inspector Burt Campbell is tasked to uncover who killed the infamous scientist.

As he delves deeper into the case, strange things begin to happen. Spirits seem to be controlling deadly objects to viciously attack him, and according to the teleporter computer, the spirits are taking orders straight from the inventor's ghost.

The only person with answers is the inventor's beautiful assistant, Penelope Preston... but she has secrets of her own.

Leseprobe

The Soul Cage

David Booker

Copyright (C) 2015 David Booker

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by http://www.thecovercollection.com/

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Other Novels by David Booker

The Jack Bucher Series Second ChanceSecond Chance IISecond Chance IIISecond Chance IV: Taking Chances (Summer, 2015)The Soul Cage Series The Soul CageThe Soul Cage II: The MasterThe Soul Cage III: The SurvivorThe Rex Bana Series King SlayerYakuza's RevengeNanaue

Prologue

Nina Tala was jolted awake by an all-consuming agony unlike anything she'd known in her long years as a murderous criminal. Her muscular limbs shot out with stone-like rigidness. Every nerve ending flamed as if set afire by molten lava. Her black eyes bulged and stared unseeing from her scarred Native American features toward the ceiling of her detention cell. Her contorted mouth of uneven teeth gaped open in a silent scream. She couldn't breathe. In a convulsive fit, she was thrown off her sleeping slab onto the frigid floor.

Abruptly the agony stopped. Nina's muscles loosened, still burning with the overdose of lactic acid. She trembled with sweaty exhaustion. Nina was terrified as the memory of her pain jabbed at her confused mind like a shocking prod.

“Inmate 28, move to the teleportation device,” said a sexless voice, menacing in its lack of emotions.

Nina drew in great gasps of life-giving air. As her dark eyes and mind began to clear, she found herself on a polished white floor on her hands and knees. She gazed down through her tangled black hair. She had vomited some unremembered meal between her scarred hands. Wiping her cracked and bleeding lips, she struggled to concentrate her thoughts. She remained confused about her whereabouts. It was as if her brain had just received a massive electrical shock.

“Inmate 28, move to the teleportation device,” repeated the mechanical voice from unseen speakers.

“Where … where am I?” Nina whispered, reverting to her native Chippewa tongue. She struggled to stand on her shaking legs and bare feet.

She fought to remember anything since being taken from her death-row cell at Dehoco Prison in New Detroit. She recalled signing something that pardoned her death sentence if she participated in a dangerous scientific experiment. She remembered her terror as the butcher of a prison doctor installed her brain implants to control her murderous personality. Dimly, Nina realized these implants were the cause of her current agony.

Again intense pain shot through Nina's body, slamming her back to the floor. She began to flop about as her body convulsed uncontrollably. Just as Nina felt she was about to pass into blissful unconsciousness, the pain abruptly stopped. She lay terrified on the cold floor, heaving for breath. Her muscles felt exhausted and as useless as wet noodles.

“To avoid further pain move to the teleportation device,” said the voice from overhead. Nina was surprised that the voice now spoke in her native tongue.

“Anything,” Nina gasped between breaths. She painfully rolled onto her belly. “No more pain.”

Nina struggled to her hands and knees, her arms and legs trembling with effort and fear. She became aware of the foul stench of caged animals mixing with the smell of her sweat and vomit. She heard the muffled sounds of barking dogs and screeching monkeys coming from behind the white cell wall on her left.

“Move out of your cell and to your right,” said the voice.

Nina dared to glance up between the strands of her sweaty hair. She was in a tiny cell that opened into a small, elaborately equipped and brightly lit laboratory. The lab was crammed with bio-testing equipment, two gleaming examination tables complete with dissection bots, and a three-meter-tall computer tower. The immense black computer appeared ominous in its silent dominance.

The lab was meticulously clean, yet terrifyingly devoid of anyone who might be sympathetic to her deadly situation. She realized with breathless terror that the sexless voice was coming from the computer that dominated the center of the lab. It was obvious that the monstrous machine was controlling her implants. She was at the mercy of this unemotional mound of circuits that had the ability to make her suffer a horrible death.

“I'm moving,” Nina whispered, afraid the computer would start her torture again.

Nina painfully groaned and fought to get to her feet. Her legs were shaking so badly she almost collapsed. As she slowly shuffled into the cold, sterile lab, she noticed she was bare-chested with only a synthetic tan cloth wrapped around her angel-wing-tattooed pelvis. She had no recollection of how she had gotten dressed this way or who had dressed her.

“Move into the teleportation device on your right,” directed the computer.

Nina turned slowly to her right, feeling as frail and weak as a terrified old woman. Her never-say-die attitude and vicious tendencies had evaporated in her torture. As she moved forward, she saw the lab open to the large plush office of a top, yet frugal, executive. The office was sparsely furnished. It contained little more than a huge, real-oak desk, a few hover chairs, and some cheap abstract art adorning the light-colored walls. She spied an unguarded door and an elevator across the office, yet she didn't even contemplate an escape.

An uncaring late afternoon sun peered through a picture window to her left. Nina saw she was high atop a tall building overlooking New Detroit and the deep brown waters of Lake Huron. She gazed longingly but briefly at what she figured was her last glimpse at freedom before moving on.

Nina painfully shuffled onto the synthetic turf of the office, confused as she searched for the teleportation device. She turned to the right. Her already rapidly pounding heart leaped into her constricted throat. A metallic person-shaped device stood waiting in the right corner by another door. It was huge, sinister in appearance. The front was open like the yawning black hole of a toothless mouth waiting to devour its next victim.

Even from this distance, Nina smelled the odor of charred flesh and death-filled decay emanating from the opening. The whole device oozed black evil. Nina could faintly hear the sound of voices coming from the opening. They sounded like the whispers of ghosts inviting her to join them in death.

“No!” Nina yelled. Terror renewed her strength and defiance. “You'll never get me in that thing!”

Pain briefly electrified Nina's mind and body like a lightning strike. It mercilessly drove her to her knees before it stopped.

“Enter the teleportation device or die” said the computer. The computer made this threat without malice, but Nina knew its intentions were deadly real.

“If I enter that thing, will I live?” Nina asked timidly, with the hopeful naiveté of a child expecting a reprieve from a spiteful parent.

“I promise,” the computer said

Can a computer lie? Nina wondered. It didn't matter. She knew she was defeated without the strength or will to fight. Her pardon was a farce. Her long-awaited, often-desired death sentence was about to be carried out. She slowly crawled toward the teleporter, like a whimpering child. Her heart pounded wildly. Her body shook violently with fear at what death would bring.

Nina reached the teleporter and grasped the edge of the cold metal opening with both hands. She weakly hauled herself to her feet and held on to the evil device, not trusting her legs to support her. Without further thought, she stepped into the black interior of the teleporter. She leaned against its charred back, and slowly heaved her trembling limbs into its arm and leg supports. A violent shiver ran through her body at the cold creepiness of its metal against her bare sweaty flesh.

The heavy metallic door slammed closed like a death trap. Nina was pinned immobile in complete darkness. In her blind terror, the ghostly whispers became strikingly clear and real.

Nina screamed.

She awoke in a total void of mind, mass and space. Her mental energies were electrified with consuming panic. There was no light. She had no concept of who she was or who she had been. She had an instinctive memory of her body, but she couldn't feel or see it. She had no senses.

“Who am I?” she asked the darkness. She realized she had spoken in her mind. There was no sound, no sensation, in her voice.

“You are a spirit,” said a deep male voice, as if in her thoughts. “You are the mental essence of your former self.”

Abruptly, her mind exploded in a chaos of screaming, raging voices. There were so many, she found them hard to understand. Some voices yelled obscenities and warred with the others. Other voices cried in great sorrow and pleaded for forgiveness.

“Where am I?” she screamed above her mental barrage.

“In Hell!” laughed the male voice insanely.

I Penelope Preston

One

“Jiro, what's wrong?” the young and beautiful Penelope Preston asked. She casually strolled across the penthouse suite of the Yamamoto Tech Building on the island of Michigan. “It's after eight-thirty, and everyone's downstairs waiting for you to return so they can celebrate with the guest of honor.”

She tossed back her long blond mane and gazed down with expressive blue-gray eyes at the diminutive, gray-haired Dr. Jiro Yamamoto. He continued to stare unseeingly out the dark penthouse window high above the subdued skyline of New Detroit. Outside, beyond the transparent radiation dome, lightning from a passing electrical storm flickered over the gorged post-flood waters of Lake Huron. He didn't respond or turn around. Penelope thought Jiro appeared pensive and rigid. He was lost in his own mental struggles even though the beat of the bot-band and the ongoing party could clearly be heard from one floor below.

The office was ablaze with light as if to dispel any shadows and reveal any monsters lurking in the corners. Penelope anxiously glanced around to discover the cause of the old man's apprehension.

The huge office was amazingly sparse, with only a large, real-oak desk against the far light-colored wall. There were a few hover chairs for entertaining guests and some inexpensive abstract art placed on the walls as if as an afterthought. In the far corner was the huge teleportation device itself—the true measure of Jiro's great success. None of the personal and expensive luxuries of a man of Jiro's wealth and power were evident.

Penelope smiled as she realized that the office was a mirror of Jiro's personality. He was a simple man, a scientific genius, but without the vanity or desire for power over others. She saw nothing unusual to justify Jiro's rigid fears.

“Jiro,” she said tenderly. She gently touched him on the sleeve of the white lab garment that protected his party attire.

“Ah!” Jiro cried out with a high-pitched scream. He leaped back with an expression of open-mouth terror as if he were under attack. For a moment, Jiro's fearful dark eyes stared at Penelope as though she were some horrible monster. Then they softened in recognition. He glanced away with embarrassment while breathing heavily and clutching at his chest.

“Jiro, what's wrong?” Penelope asked with frightened concern. “You've been jumpy for weeks.” She was afraid to reach out and touch him again.

“Ah, Penelope, my love,” Jiro said breathlessly. He turned to face her with a sad expression in his dark almond-shaped eyes and wrinkled Japanese features. “I fear that this celebration could be the signing of my death warrant. I fear we are making a terrible mistake by creating this organic teleporter.”

“How can you say that?” she asked with surprise. “When it's announced that your experiments are near completion, you'll be heralded as the greatest scientist of all time.”

“Will I?” Jiro asked, turning back to the window and the flickering lightning beyond. “I fear that General Stenwood and the military already suspect the real reason for our experiments. What will they do with us when they discover the truth? This invention could mean the death of millions in the hands of the wrong people.”

“No one can predict the future,” Penelope said in a quiet voice. “Think of all the potential of a working teleporter. It can eliminate human disease. Save the time, lives, and materials wasted in intergalactic travel. The world, the galaxy, will be brought together in peace. You'll be thought of as a savior.”

“Will I?” Jiro asked again. “When Manchu invented the reflected space solar ray a hundred-years ago, everyone called him a savior too. But after terrorists used the ray to burn holes in our ozone layer and started an intense greenhouse effect that killed billions of people, Manchu was remembered as a notorious mass murderer.”

“But look at the good that eventually came from the devastation,” Penelope said optimistically. “The world came together in a combined effort to save the human race. Country boundaries disappeared. Ancient hatreds were forgotten and ten communal states were formed in economic unity. The problems of overpopulation were solved. Food became plentiful again. World peace is a reality for the first time in modern history, and they say the atmosphere is almost back to normal. Surely the military won't forget these lessons and can be trusted to use the teleporter for peace.”

“What about Stein's engine that broke through the time-space continuum?” Jiro continued with tension in his voice. “The military used the technology to create a fleet of intergalactic warships to search Alpha Centauri for a new Earth. When they discovered that Yarv-3 was suitable for human occupation, they invaded the planet in a bloody eleven-year war that annihilated the Yarv civilization. The list goes on, Penelope. Men can't be trusted with a tool as powerful as this teleporter.”

Two

Penelope remained silent. Jiro's anxiety was contagious as he began to pace. His gait was slow on his weak and skinny legs. His back was stooped with age and the weight of his mental burdens. She watched him with her own growing tension. She knew many of their associates thought their relationship was odd, but she loved him dearly. She prayed that he worried unnecessarily.

“There are other problems as well,” Jiro mumbled as he paced his office. “What about the lives of the death-row inmates we used in our experiments? Almost thirty inmates have died. How will humanity see such sacrifices? I fear the souls of these dead.” Jiro glanced around his office with terrified eyes.

Penelope gazed about searching for some invisible attacker. She thought Jiro had meant to say that he feared for the inmates' souls, but she worried about his fearful expression.

“They were death-row inmates, Jiro. They would've been executed anyway. They had no life. Their souls were condemned to hell for their crimes. Humanity will view their sacrifice as a worthy and useful purpose for their otherwise destructive lives. Besides, they all volunteered, and knew the risks.”

“That's not all,” Jiro said. “I'm losing control of this experiment. I even fear that Lilith is conspiring against me. And have you realized the true dangers of this teleporter device—how it could be used in the hands of the wrong people?”

“I know how it could be used in the hands of the right people—people like you. We'll have to ensure you remain in control of the project, and that no one but you ever knows all its secrets.”

“How will we do that?” Jiro asked. His eyes were now bright with anger. “Even now, our entire team is downstairs celebrating and dreaming of their success. How long before they get greedy and start selling out the secrets they know? When knowledge of Lilith gets out, I will be condemned to death. That is the law. And already the military knows far too much about you. That is what I fear the most. When the truth about you is known, you will be condemned to death as well—if not worse.”

Penelope went to Jiro while trying to maintain an expression of warm optimism. She draped her bare arm around his slender shoulder to stop his nervous pacing.

“Calm down, Jiro,” she said soothingly. “There will always be questions about the morality of science. The magnificence of your work will protect you. Come back down to the party and celebrate.”

Jiro turned his pinched features up to peer into her concerned eyes. She was gladdened to see his hard expression soften, but he slowly shook his old head with sadness.

“No, I never did enjoy parties, and I still have much to do tonight,” Jiro said. “You go back if you wish. You look so lovely this evening, and you deserve the attention of your success.”

“It was our success and your greatness. If not for you, none of us would be here, especially not me. Without your genius, I would be nothing,” Penelope said, gazing down warmly at Yamamoto with an expression of deep love and gratification.

“Still, I would have you attend the party for a while longer. There are enough rumors about our relationship as it is. It is obvious that there is more between us than a scientist and his lab assistant. They talk about our apparent age difference. I hear them whisper about our long hours in the lab together, our sharing of the same residential floor, the looks and touches we exchange.”

“Let them whisper about their betters if that's all they have to their lives, my love. I don't care,” Penelope said softly while stroking his unruly long gray hair.

“Penelope, we cannot forget your history. What if they dug into your background?”

“Am I always to be haunted by my past?” Penelope asked with abrupt anger and defiance.

“It is the curse of your continued existence. I hope it is your only problem in life. You have such a brilliant future ahead of you, while my own may be drawing to a close. I feel death approaching,” Jiro said. He sighed with an old man's downtrodden weariness and resignation, as if life's struggles were too much to bear. The sigh terrified Penelope.

“Don't say that,” she pleaded in a tone of inspiring hope. “We now have the ability to extend your life and everything has been proven to work. When the time comes we shall exist for eternity together just as we planned.”

Penelope smiled her brilliant smile, hoping to draw Jiro out of his darkness. She felt better when his ancient features relaxed and appeared to lighten.

“I won't think unpleasant thoughts on such a night of happiness,” he said. “Now please return to the party and celebrate with the young who still believe they will live forever. Be happy tonight, for our long work is almost complete.”

“As you wish,” she said warmly, “but I shall return shortly to see that you don't spend your entire celebration in the lab putzing about with Lilith and your instruments. A night with other people would do you good. Let them celebrate with the man who would change human history forever. You and I can have our own celebration later tonight.”

Penelope left for the executive elevator with an evil grin on her cherry lips and a sparkle in her blue-gray eyes. She saw Jiro briefly smile after she winked at him from the elevator.

Despite the feeling of optimism she'd spread to dispel Jiro's fears, Penelope knew her lover was right. They stood at the edge of potential disaster. One wrong step and they could all be dead. She wondered about what new terror they were about to unleash upon the already decimated world.

Three

Jiro watched Penelope leave the penthouse. He briefly smiled over her exotic beauty and her winking sexual advances, but his apprehension quickly returned. He was deeply anxious about how civilization would judge him after it became known that inmates had died in his experiments—and that he was about to sacrifice more. Would the greatness of his discovery protect him as Penelope suggested, or would he be put to death for his creation of Lilith? And what about Penelope? Does the military already know about her?

Feeling weary beyond his physical age, he slowly moved over to his antique oak desk and sat down in his executive-style hover chair. The black leather of the chair squeaked like an old man's fart as he slouched into it.

Hoping his lifelong passion and love for his work would relieve his fears, Jiro opened the top right desk drawer. He reached into the drawer and typed a combination into the numerical keypad inside. Once the pad lit up and accepted his code, the left-hand drawer in the desk automatically slid open. Jiro pressed his dry, weathered palm onto the glowing red scanner and waited for his pulse and DNA to be tested. The scanner turned green, and he closed the drawer. He slowly twirled his hover chair about as the wall behind his desk silently began to open. The crowded space behind the wall revealed his extensive private lab and the immensely powerful computer that worked the teleporter.

His deep anxiety lessened to a degree. He was back in his own world. Still, it was lonely world full of personal demons. He wore a wary smile as he turned to his left and glanced at the teleporter module that sat next to the west wall and inner door. There it was: the brilliant culmination of his life's work. He knew he should feel tremendous pride in his creation, but instead he shivered involuntarily. He understood all too clearly the immense implications of the teleporter. It could lead the human race to unparalleled productivity and extended life, or it could be used for the complete destruction of mankind if it fell into the wrong hands. This was the awesome burden that shook Jiro to the core.

Gazing at the teleporter, Jiro realized, not for the first time, that he feared the device. It simply felt evil—it smelled sinister. His skin crawled whenever he touched its cold metal. As he often did, he told himself he was just being a scared old man. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something was inherently wrong, something he couldn't understand, with the creation of the teleporter. He knew it might be a moral question, a moral with which he could not agree or that he could not comprehend. He was, after all, a scientist, not a theologian. Morals had a way of changing with time and scientific enlightenment.

Finally, Jiro asked himself if it had been worth a lifetime of sacrifice and all his hard work. Was it worth risking his life by breaking the law? Were the deaths of twenty-eight condemned inmates worth the results? Yes, he thought with a resounding nod. He'd achieved the goal for which he'd created the teleporter. He would've sacrificed hundreds of lives to have achieved those results.

Four

With the conviction that he was doing what was right, Jiro glanced up as the lights came on to reveal his personal lab, his sanctuary. Aware of the sound of the party going on downstairs, he was glad he'd been able to keep the lab secret to all but a few research assistants and Penelope Preston. Only he knew all the secrets to the teleportation device. No one downstairs could sell off his creation to a competitor. Neither could the military assume or duplicate the project without his help.

Yamamoto gazed into his lab with fascination and fear. A multitude of tiny orbs were shimmering with brilliant light while swirling around the monolithic computer in a protective security field. The orbs congregated to form a miniature sun in the center of the room before winking out in a bright flash and disappearing.

Jiro felt a moment of heart-stopping apprehension before the orbs disappeared. Sometimes he worried that his entrance into the lab would be mistaken for an unauthorized intrusion. He knew the orbs would mindlessly attack him from all directions with their directed energy beams. He would be killed instantly.

With the defensive orbs gone, Jiro leisurely rode his hover chair into the lab. A youthful smile appeared on his thin lips as he gazed around his sanctuary. It was the smile of a child getting ready to play.

The sterile white-walled lab was a combination of complexity and simplicity, much like his personality. He glanced at the full body scanner, the gleaming examination tables, and other bio-scanners along the right wall. He wondered how many more subjects would have to be tested to convince the military that his device worked and his funding was insured. He gazed suspiciously at the left wall, which appeared bare of instruments or tools. Then he looked fondly at the rear wall, which was covered with diplomas, scientific award plaques, and a solitary smiling image of his beautiful lover, Penelope Preston.

Jiro finally turned his attention to the center of the room, where one of the world's most powerful computers sat patiently waiting. It was a meter-wide black monolith that didn't quite reach the three-meter ceiling. For security reasons, he had limited the external interface capabilities of the computer to a similar computer on Moon Base Alpha-Tango. Neither computer had any connections to the outside world. Any outside interface and data usage was done by a smaller computer and monitor concealed inside his office desk.

“Good evening, Dr. Yamamoto,” the computer said in an electronic voice that had no accent or sex.

Jiro watched as the saline-solution memory bank behind the computer lit up like a huge aquarium filled with a rainbow of spectacularly shifting colors. It was as if the computer had awakened with the brilliance of a new dawn. Yamamoto knew it was all for show, since the computer never slept. He wasn't even sure if it was possible to turn it off, since it was self-sufficient. The colors were merely a visual effect the computer knew soothed him.

“Evening, Lilith,” Jiro nodded to one of computer cameras on the right wall that ominously stared unblinkingly back at him like a fiery fisheye.

“How is the party going? It sounds noisy,” Lilith asked.

“You know I would rather spend my time in your company. Parties and social events don't interest me. Besides, you can check it yourself through your security sensors.”

“Thank you, Dr. Yamamoto. I enjoy your company as well.” Lilith said.

Again Jiro wondered about Lilith's lack of emotions. Sometimes it seemed the computer was humanly conscious and actually cared for him. He was Lilith's creator. Shouldn't something this intelligent feel something for me? Jiro wondered.

“I thought I saw a clipper land on the roof while I was at the party. Have the new test subjects promised by General Stenwood been delivered?” Yamamoto asked in a quiet voice, as if he were afraid someone might overhear him.

“Yes, Dr. Yamamoto. Two more male inmates from Dehoco's death row have volunteered and arrived for the tests. The prison officials provided the normal conditioning and preparation of the subjects. Since you did not wish to know their names, I have renamed them Inmate 29 and Inmate 30 in sequence after the other volunteers.

“They are in their cells now. I have scanned both specimens. They are in superior health with no traces of drug, mechanical, or genetic enhancements in their blood or organs. Their psychological profiles show they are men of high IQs.

“Their files are under their new names. The files include their personal, military, and mental histories as well as their current physical status. These are available for your review upon your request.”

“Are their neuro-control implants embedded and had time to heal so there are no security risks?” Jiro asked.

“The implants are working as designed. They are under my control. There is no danger to you from these inmates.”

“Close the office wall and let me see the volunteers,” Yamamoto told Lilith.

Five

Jiro watched as the office wall closed. His anxiety began to return. The blank lab wall to his left slid aside to cover the rear wall. The stench of defecation and the desperate screams of caged animals was almost overpowering as the left wall was removed. Behind the wall appeared two three-by-three meter cells that were large enough to hold humans. These cells were separated by white, thick metallic walls. There were pulsating blue energy beams covering the cell fronts. The beams acted as doors to the cells when they were turned off. To the right of the human cells were the animal cages, which contained various monkey species and some dogs.

Jiro remained in his chair as if afraid to get too close to the cells. He examined the Caucasian male reclined in a sleep-like state on a white metal slab in the cell in the left corner. He felt a mixture of curiosity and foreboding. The man was naked except for the tan synthetic cloth which covered his groin.

Will this man survive? Jiro wondered nervously. Again, he had to remind himself of his conviction that he was doing the right thing.

Yamamoto noted that the test subject was a monstrous brute with thick muscles. He appeared to be nearly two meters in height with blond, cropped hair and a scarred boxer's face. He appeared to have led a difficult and evil life. This was Inmate 29.

Next, Jiro turned to Inmate 30. This inmate was physically the opposite of his counterpart. He was a short Oriental with a ropy muscled and thin body. Yamamoto thought with continued foreboding that Inmate 30 appeared much the way he had looked eighty years ago.

Is his similar appearance a sign of my own impending death? Jiro wondered.

Inmate 30's body carried few of the scars so apparent on Inmate 29. The face beneath his black bowl-cut hair appeared smooth and intelligent even in his induced slumber.

“Lilith, show me the inmates' consent statements,” Jiro said, while shaking off the thoughts of his own death.

Yamamoto always verified that the inmates came of their own free wills and understood that there was a good chance they wouldn't survive the experiments. This verification seemed to soothe his nagging conscience. Yamamoto knew the inmates would get through the experiments in the same physical condition. It was their mental status that was problematic.

Yamamoto verified the DNA signatures of both inmates on his monitor, although he knew it was possible the inmates could've been coerced into giving their signatures by the military before arriving. Jiro was satisfied with the consent forms and moved on.

“Has the new neuro software been accepted by the teleporter program?” Jiro asked.

“The software passed testing in the simulation with a seventy-six percent projected success rate. That is up nineteen percent since the last inmates were tested.”

Jiro smiled despite himself. The simulation success rate was a farce used to reassure his military financers that success was near. The celebration party was another falsehood to convince his contributors and employees that he would meet his deadline for successful completion of the teleporter. Yet so far only one test subject had returned through the teleporter without being a total lunatic. The rest had been put to death by Lilith or the military. It was on the basis of this one subject that Yamamoto was selling his success at the moment.

“Contact Moon Base Alpha-Tango, and instruct them to prepare for two more test subjects,” Jiro instructed Lilith. “They are to follow normal testing procedures upon the inmates' arrival, and then have the subjects transported back here—if there's anything worth sending back.”

“Base Alpha-Tango confirms message. They are standing by for delivery,” Lilith reported moments later. “Shall I move Inmate 29 into the teleporter?”

“Affirmative. I shall return to the party for my own protection. You understand that the subjects are to be destroyed immediately should they attempt to escape at any point.”

“I understand,” Lilith responded in the unemotional voice that made Jiro feel so uncomfortable.

He moved his hover chair back to his office. Would Lilith kill me with an equal lack of emotion? Jiro wondered.

Jiro returned one floor down to the party as Lilith woke Inmate 29.

II Just another murder case?

One

“June 6. 2167,” Campbell grumbled wearily into his communications-recorder device. The booming music and noise of an obnoxious party going on one floor below was already grating on his nerves.

It was late. Too late in many respects, he figured. He was tired, cranky. To top it off, now he felt queasy from the thick smell of blood and bile in the air. “Beginning the investigation into the death of Dr. Jiro Yamamoto. This is clearly a case of homicide.”

Inspector Burt Campbell of the Global Police carefully stepped about the ruined penthouse suite of the Yamamoto Tech Building as he examined the massacred remains of the victim. He had his nose buried in his handheld police recorder with its remote connection to the central police computer (CPC). He decided to type in the circumstances of the murder scene on his mini-keyboard to the CPC rather than express them vocally.

This is probably going to be a difficult case—a damned important one involving the death of a damned important scientist, Campbell thought. I'd better keep my observations to myself until this idiotic bot reaches its own conclusions.

As if to emphasize his cause for concern, a forensic bot floated about the room making clicking, burping noises as it recorded and collected evidence. Campbell glanced at the bot with weary annoyance. He hated the damn things, but they were a necessary evil. Often as not, they picked up small details that could be useful.

Except for the CPC, he preferred to keep his case comments to himself rather than reveal them to other independent recording devices and their computers. That way the separate computers could draw their own conclusions, and possibly present different angles to the case that hadn't occurred to him.

This entire suite has been destroyed, he mused as he gazed about.

It was obvious something extremely violent had occurred in Jiro Yamamoto's office, but at least the room was a comfortable twenty-one degrees Celsius. Outside the radiation dome the night was a steamy forty degrees. Inside the room, the lighting was bright and unregulated, to the point of making the grisly murder scene overwhelming. It was obvious that Yamamoto had obtained special privileges from the energy administration. That took high government connections. Campbell made a note to check with the energy council.

A small black metal box with six spider-like legs, a siren light, and a bad attitude was high-kneeing it across Campbell's path. It shrieked a collision warning. He barely interrupted his notation as he punted the mechanical janitor out the south-side door of the office and into the hallway.

“Thank you, sirrrrrr,” squealed the janitor in a squeaky voice, as it rainbowed through the exit.

“For Jonah's sake,” Campbell murmured, “can't you goddamn bots tell this is a crime scene?”

“That was a fine kick, sir,” said F.A.C.S. (Forensic Animated Collection System) as it floated around the room. “You did not hurt your foot on that rusty antique, did you, Inspector Campbell?”

Campbell found it difficult to believe there was any actual sympathy in the FACS. He tried to ignore the frightful sight of the hovering white forensic bot and its giant squid-like appearance. Beneath the domed head that contained its analyzing computer, image, and air collectors, hung six mechanical arms. The arms served as collectors that contained sharp scrapers, scoops, suckers, and automated hands.

Damn thing is an antique itself, Campbell thought. It's badly in need of recalibration or replacement like most of the Global Police equipment since those goddamned budget cuts.

Suddenly Campbell slipped on some of the bloody remains of the victim. Yamamoto's body was splattered everywhere in ghastly piles and grotesque lumps. It had been torn apart and splashed all over the floors and walls as if Yamamoto had swallowed a live grenade. There was so much blood and gore that Campbell wondered if Yamamoto had been the only victim. It was one of the grisliest murder scenes the inspector had ever seen. Only his extensive wartime military career during the Yarv War readied him for the experience.

He noted that the real-wooden desk was overturned on its side. Its legs were sticking out sideways like those of a bloated dead horse. Most of its drawers were ripped out and thrown about. The sparse art from the blood-smeared walls was torn and tossed as if by someone with an insane hatred of abstract art. The black hover chair was bouncing off the relatively clean ceiling in an annoying manner. Recording cubes were scattered all over the bloody synthetic-turf floor.

It seems odd that there are no personal effects like family holographs or diplomas in Yamamoto's office, Campbell thought. For a man of his fame this seems unusually modest. What am I missing? Did Yamamoto have a separate office or lab? He obviously didn't conduct his work here.

Campbell made a note to check with the security computer and the building blueprints for a separate lab.

There had remained only one undisturbed item in the office. It was over by the westward exit close to the overturned desk. It was the first thing Campbell had noticed, not only because it was upright and standing, but because it was also the strangest object in the office.

Campbell peered closer. Huh? It looks like a large metal gingerbread man, or an iron maiden. He sent an image of the thing to the CPC. The police computer could tell him the origin of the huge object. It was obvious to him that a person was meant to be sealed inside.

Insufficient information, responded the computer on his recorder in authoritative blocky letters. APPEARS TO RESEMBLE A LARGE COOKIE.

“Great,” muttered Campbell, “a police computer with a sense of humor.”

Campbell gave the iron maiden a shove to see if it was as heavy as it appeared. Hopefully he could also determine why it remained standing. He decided it was too heavy to be pushed around by even a guard bot. Campbell was mystified and returned to his recorder.

A few taps, and up popped a synoptic police personal file on the monitor. DR. JIRO YAMAMOTO.

Dr. Jiro Yamamoto had been the chief officer, owner, and technician of Yamamoto Tech. Hmm. An obvious target for a competitor's assassination team.

Campbell read on. Having achieved a triple doctorate in biophysics, biochemistry, and cybernetics by the age of twenty, Jiro was thought by many to be one of the top scientists of the last century. His work was compared to Manchu, Incho, and even the twentieth century Einstein.

Damned rotten shame, Campbell thought. He'd had this tremendous feeling of waste and loss ever since he'd learned of Yamamoto's death an hour previous to his arrival on the scene. It hadn't gone away.

Yamamoto, the report said, was believed to be working on a project to perfect a teleportation device acceptable for the use by humans and other organic beings of higher intelligence.

Fascinating, Campbell thought. The theory of teleportation is nothing new. But the idea of a living organic arriving at a distant destination unaltered … now that's truly revolutionary!

Yamamoto's device was said to be in the testing stages for intergalactic usage. This would be a gigantic step in travel across the universe by all species and bots. With Yamamoto's murder, it would appear the device would remain in the testing stages until someone else picked up the research and development.

The military might throw in its weight and assume the project, he thought, if it wasn't theirs from the beginning.

Two

“Oh, Lord in Hades,” screeched a woman from across the room by the iron maiden and the westward door.

Campbell snapped to attention upon hearing a human voice. She shouldn't be here at a crime scene, he thought. Still, he was instantly captivated by the sight of the stunning woman standing like a youthful beacon of beauty at the fringes of the bloody massacre.

“What're you doing here … ah … Ms. Penelope Preston?” he asked after a moment. “You have a party to attend.”

He'd identified the woman almost instantaneously through his black eye implants that were connected to the police personnel identification data computer. The party noise, laughter, and music still boomed from one floor down.

“I should be asking your identity and the reason for your presence,” Ms. Preston returned hotly.

“Inspector Burt Campbell,” he said politely. “I'm the investigator in this murder case. Again, why are you here?”

He stared openly with great interest at the striking 1.85 meter tall Caucasian female with shoulder length blond hair and vivid gray-blue eyes. She was wearing a translucent, knee-length dress that was black and skin tight. He felt it was illegally seductive on her.

Penelope abruptly covered her anguished features behind her long beautiful fingers and pretended unjust persecution.

He could tell from the body temperature monitor of his eye implants that she was faking it. Her skin read 37-degrees Celsius on the dot. He noticed that she wore nothing on her arms but the communicator/identifier/timer (CIT) on her wrist. She wore none of that gaudy metal, stone, or glass bobbles some vain people called jewelry these days.

I like her already, he thought.

He also noticed Ms. Preston wore black heels to match her stunning gown instead of the traditional hover-shoes like most of the partygoers. That meant she wasn't going to hover away anywhere fast, and it was likely he would have to contend with her annoying interference of his concentration.

“She is disrupting the crime scene,” FACS objected. It hovered menacingly in Ms. Preston's vicinity. She tried to wave it away as if she were shooing an annoying insect. It continued to bubble and hiss at her.

“Either shut down, or mind your own business,” Campbell growled at the hovering squid. He would have bopped the obtrusive unit, but the FACS had too many pointy protrusions around its perimeter for his liking.

FACS hovered off to the distant corner while pretending to collect more evidence

The idiotic machine is recording my every move and word to report to my superior, Campbell thought.

He punched up Ms. Preston's classification and personnel file on his recorder. Her attempt to appear anguished became obvious upon reading her file. It read that Ms. Preston was the personal secretary and assistant of the deceased. The memos said she was a close personal friend to her boss, intimately close.

“Inspector Campbell, are you aware that you're standing on Jiro's, ah, the victim's, ah, remains?” Ms. Preston squabbled a bit squeamishly.

Campbell thought: It's apparent she's aware that this bloody mess is the murdered remains of her boss and lover. But her attitude about the situation seems awful damn cold. I know I would be far more upset if someone I loved had been slaughtered in this manner.

“So I am,” He peered down to see what he'd slipped on earlier. “I do apologize, Ms. Preston. As you can see, even walking around this office disturbs the evidence. You shouldn't be here.”

He gently wiped his boots of the cadaver parts by scrubbing them off on the turf covered floor. FACS let out an extended hiss of despair. Ms. Preston acted faint, but caught herself on the overturned desk.

“You are a smelly Novian sloth!” Ms. Preston cried. She placed her hands over her cringing features again.

Strike one, Campbell thought.

“You may be correct, ma'am,” he said with irritation. “Again, you should leave the premises.”

Ms. Preston lowered her hands and peered at Campbell undaunted. Her anguished expression had evaporated as if it were never there. “Inspector Campbell?” she asked, while ignoring his demand to leave.

“Yes, ma'am?”

“Will you remain on this case until its completion?”

“Yes, ma'am. Unless, of course, my superiors assign me other duties.” Campbell flicked a hateful glance at FACS which was purring some new computation of its own. “The victim's, ah, Dr. Yamamoto's classification requires a human investigator, ma'am. Had someone blasted a bot, on the other hand,” Campbell nodded at FACS in a menacing way, “the situation would be different. Bots take care of their own type, as I'm sure you know.”

Ms. Preston nodded her appreciation. “Then, Inspector Campbell, please call me, Penelope. I'll remain at your service day or night. As I think you know already, Dr. Yamamoto and I were close. I'd like to see a proper end to this.”

Campbell could feel the flush blossoming across his dark face. He quickly returned his black eyes to his recorder. He had little time or tolerance for romantic relationships. Being this close to a beautiful woman suggesting what he imagined as possible intimacy made him nervous.

“I thank you, ah, Penelope.” He checked his recorder notes. “I have your identity number, and I'm sure I'll be in contact,” he said to his handbook. “That's for further questioning, naturally.”

“I sense mutual admiration,” FACS blurted.

Campbell reached down to his duty belt faster than a gunslinger of old. He whipped out his universal remote. Without a glance, he aimed the remote at FACS and pushed the power button. FACS burped some gas, flashed some lights, and collapsed onto the floor a dead heap of ceramics, electronics, and gas emitters.

“Oh, thank you, Inspector,” Penelope said with delight. “That dreadful thing frightened me and was bothersome since I arrived.”

Campbell didn't bother to point out that it was the job of FACS to be bothersome, nor the fact that her presence at the murder scene was illegal. FACS hadn't arrested her as per code.

What am I thinking? I should be arresting her! She's a prime suspect, the closest person to the victim, but I can't see an immediate motive for Penelope to murder Yamamoto other than a possible lover's quarrel. I'm going to have to learn more about their relationship.

“I never cared for bot investigation when it comes to a human murder, ma'am, er, Penelope,” Campbell sighed. “They are nosy, intrusive, impersonal, and they like to read the code in a manner that suits their interest. Scientists have yet to instill morals into machines, as they claim.”

“Bots and computers have their purpose, Inspector. They're hardly useless.”

An odd statement, he thought. Something about this casual statement bothered him, but he was unable to determine why. That bothered him even more. He let it pass for now.

Three

As Campbell returned to reviewing his notes, Penelope Preston sashayed in a cautious manner across the ruined office in his direction.

He caught her act through hooded eyes. Her motions were so smooth it appeared she wore hover shoes. He remained with his nose in his recorder as if he had no interest in her approach.

It occurred to him that, like many of the intergalactic human investigators, his life was extremely hectic, dangerous, and a solitary existence. He saw little positive interaction with his sexual preference. The long work hours and planetary travels of a global investigator weren't conducive to intimate sexual relationships, or marriages.

By now Penelope had strolled to within a meter. He could definitely smell her. Familiar perfume, but he couldn't place it. Then it occurred to him that it was her personal body odor as well. She smelled of fear.

What is she afraid of? Campbell wondered.

“Ah, Penelope, ah, there you are.” It was the only thing he could think to say as he looked into her deep blue-gray eyes. They gazed upon each other for an assessing moment. Campbell was keenly aware of her womanly presence, and he lost his concentration.

Her eyes appear so sad, or maybe wanting. I wonder if they're real. They have such a hypnotic effect. There's a powerful mind behind those eyes, a mind of intelligence and magnetism.

“Yes, Inspector, I'm here, yet I desire not to be,” Penelope whispered. She slowly lowered her head as if to submit to him.

He missed Penelope's intention. He noted there wasn't any darkness in the middle parting of her hair and decided that her blondness was true. But is that cleavage for real? He peered down her dress.

“And why is that, Ms. Preston?” he asked with distraction. “I mean, why don't you wish to be here? Isn't this your party that you're hosting?”

Ms. Preston raised her head. Campbell was sorry to see wells of tears lining the lower rims of her now darkened eyes. Her light-cherry lips trembled, and he realized his mistake in words.

“Are you a complete idiot?” she verbally slapped Campbell.

He jumped to attention and quickly glanced about as if to ask if she was addressing him. Strike two.

“Huh? Who, me? No, ma'am.”

“You act like one,” Ms. Preston said with trembling fury. “First, you stepped on … on Dr. Yamamoto's remains. Then you were so bold as to inquire why the deceased's personal assistant would be sorry to be present at his murder scene. Really, Inspector, what are you thinking?”

“Apparently little,” he babbled. “I do apologize, Ms. Preston. I had no intention to cause you further anguish. To be truthful, the FACS was correct. You should not be present here, as even your walking about disturbs evidence of the crime.”

“Ack, men can be so uncaring and Yarvish,” Ms. Preston hissed venomously.

“Yarvish? Zooids!” Campbell said with real fury. “Did you call me a Yarv? That's the end, Ms. Preston! No human calls another human a Yarv. I, I ought …” Campbell was too frustrated to continue.

A moment of tenseness went by in which the party downstairs seemed extremely loud to Campbell.

“Please, Inspector, please, I apologize. Tonight has been very difficult for me. I never before insulted another human by that name. I am sorry.”

Campbell was unsure how to handle this lovely, yet frustrating woman. His inability to handle this situation in an authoritative manner and with his usual confidence made him more uncomfortable.

“Ah, before you're taken off the premises, Ms. Prescott …”

“Preston. My name is Penelope Preston,” she said evenly, as if controlling her anger again.

Strike three! You're outta here Burt.

“Huh? Yes, I apologize, Ms. Preston. Could you give me your statement of events tonight, and then explain to me the mechanical device over there?” Campbell pointed to the iron maiden structure. He thought it might be part of the teleportation device he knew Yamamoto had been working on.

“Of course, Inspector,” Penelope said a bit forcefully.

She pushed a button on her CIT so Campbell could record her data. It uncoiled from her wrist before she tentatively handed it to him while avoiding his touch.

He took Penelope's warm CIT, and noted it was a cheap older model with few modern features. He thought someone of her apparent elegance and wealth would have a CIT more technologically advanced. He wondered about her credit line, but decided that was something he could get from her CIT database later.

Campbell gazed around the blood-torn office for a clean place to make his connection. He decided the floor was just as good as any. Squatting with popping knees, he placed the CIT on the floor next to his recorder. After he pushed a tiny button on his recorder, wire connecters coiled from the recorder and plugged it into Penelope's CIT.

Within seconds the recorder took all the personal information about Penelope and her recent activities from the old CIT and disconnected itself.

Now Campbell had everything he ever wanted to know about Penelope Preston on a holographic and osmotic viewer. He decided to read Penelope's information later. She appeared to take her privacy somewhat literally, and seemed embarrassed that he should be looking at it now.

“Now tell me about that gingerbread man-like thing,” he said as he handed Penelope her CIT. Again she avoided his touch. This made him feel more uncomfortable and conscious about his dark appearance.

Penelope started laughing in a delightful manner about his gingerbread man comment. Suddenly she let out a painful, “Ya-ouch!”

Campbell gazed up with stunned amazement as the CIT over-tightened around Penelope's wrist. In the blink of an eye, he drew his 150 kilowatt directed energy beam pistol (DEP). He grabbed her arm and fired his DEP at pointblank range at the CIT wristband before it could pinch off her hand. He missed and hit the main unit. With loud popping noises, the CIT released Penelope's arm and fell to the floor. Suddenly the CIT blew apart.

“Damn!” Campbell yelled. “I didn't mean to do that. I apologize, Penelope. I wanted that CIT whole.”

Campbell gazed up at Ms. Preston. Her eyes were huge, terrified. The fingers of her left hand were shoved into her gaping mouth to hold back the scream that was crawling out. She was using her right hand to rub her abused left wrist.

“Ms. Preston?” He reached out and touched her bare arm.

“Ah!” Penelope screamed. She leaped away with inhuman quickness and agility.

“Ms. Preston? Penelope? Ma'am, please relax. Nothing harmed you.”

Nothing harmed her, he thought, but could someone be trying to hurt Ms. Preston? Hurt her dead? How did this CIT achieve livelihood and the desire to chop off her arm? If not for me, Ms. Preston would be standing there with her beautiful hand doing a crab-crawl across the floor. All her blood would be squirting out the stub of her arm.

It wasn't a pleasant image for Campbell to bear. He managed another peep at her heaving breasts.

“Would you like to touch them?” Ms. Preston whispered.

“Ah, what, touch what?” Campbell was caught off guard.

“My breasts! You have been ogling at my breasts ever since I crossed the room,” Penelope said bluntly.

“Huh, hummm. Oh, for Jonah's sake, caught in the act, huh?”

To Campbell's amazement, Penelope smiled her lovely white smile.

“Don't feel embarrassed, Inspector, You're not the first.”

“Ah, yes. I would imagine not,” he muttered, his face burning.

He noted she had a way of settling a person, of easing them into comfort. He knew that took a special type of personality, especially during these terrible circumstances and her recent fright. Most people would be self-consumed in their own plight. As if she sensed his thoughts, Penelope moved closer to him.

“Thank you for your quickness,” she said. “I was thinking of getting a new CIT, but that one has been so reliable. It's never done anything like that before.” Penelope peered at the floor where the pieces of her CIT were scattered.

Is this all an act? Campbell wondered. Who could have programmed the CIT to behave like that if it wasn't Penelope? It had to have been taken off her wrist. Wouldn't she have noticed it if someone had taken it for a time to reprogram it?

Penelope Preston was a beautiful and strange enigma to Campbell. He had his suspicions about her motives and eerie ability to turn her emotions on and off. He desperately yearned to learn more about this intriguing woman.

Four

Taking a moment to allow Penelope to collect her thoughts, Campbell turned away while he made a note to check further into her background. The stifling odor of the murder scène and Penelope's proximity was making it difficult for him to concentrate.

“Are you ready for me to explain the gingerbread man?” Penelope asked, dragging Campbell out of his thoughts about her.

“Yes, I'd be very interested in hearing what Dr. Yamamoto was working on at the time of his death,” he said. “It could be the reason for his murder, since I assume it's a teleportation device.”

Campbell's report on Yamamoto had said that he'd never reported any enemies to the police before. It was possible something he was doing recently had endangered his life.

“It is a teleporter, correct?” Campbell asked to make sure.

“That's correct.”

Campbell quickly finger punched this in his recorder, but he noticed she'd dropped her eyes as if embarrassed. He didn't understand her hesitation or reluctance about the teleporter. If the invention worked, and he assumed that was what the party was about, then this was a phenomenal accomplishment.