Mornings on Mars were as red as blood.
Gomez threw his jacket over one shoulder, yawning as he headed for home. He had to stop doing this. Working nights. It was too hard.
But the money was good, for Mars Vegas. If he could just stick it out a little longer, they could move somewhere better. A real apartment, with more than three rooms. In a new city, maybe. Somewhere with parks and greenery - real green! - and maybe real jobs too. Jobs that actually went somewhere. Xandri could get a job in a tattoo parlor or an art gallery, and he could teach. Or be a TA or something.
He crossed the street, weaving as the fatigue set in.
Xan was probably asleep already. Normally she hated it when he came to bed smelling like the high rollers bar, but maybe just this once he could crawl in beside her. Maybe she wouldn't mind if he just kicked off his shoes and went to sleep in his uniform. He was so tired, he wasn't sure he could get free of his own shirtsleeves without help.
The casino shutters were still coming down behind him, but as the grind of sheet metal faded from his hearing, Gomez became aware of another, closer sound.
Footsteps.
Behind him.
He turned around.
"Oh."
He blinked. Three DOOP officers stood in the street behind him. Two of them were heavy-set, with blank, unfocused eyes. They stood like back-up flanking the third officer, who looked . . . a little unsettling, to be honest.
He'd been badly burned, the skin whorled like candle wax over whole swathes of his face and hands. One of his eyebrows had been burned clean off, and patches of his neatly-combed hair were missing. The man didn't seem to have noticed. He'd just combed his hair as normal, as if he couldn't even see the gaps. Maybe he couldn't. His eyes were bloodshot, set in deep purple swelling, and there were angry ligature marks on his neck. He looked like he should be in a hospital, or a healing spa.
If he was in pain, he didn't seem to feel it. He was wearing a fresh-pressed uniform, but no bandages. And he had the same ramrod straight posture as every other DOOP officer Gomez had ever met. He wasn't even blinking.
He was smiling though.
There was a cold edge to the smile. It made Gomez uneasy.
"Look, I . . . I know how it looks," he stammered. "But I'm not drunk, I swear. Just tired. I work at the casino. Late nights. I just got off shift. I was on my way home, actually."
"Is that so?"
The DOOP guy's voice was smooth and sharp, cut-glass clear on the consonants. British, Gomez realized, after a moment's thought. It always took him a minute to place human accents.
He nodded quickly, in case the guy noticed him staring and got offended.
"I don't want any trouble. I mean, I'm not here for any trouble. I just want to get home, officer. Sir."
"Commander, in fact. A recent promotion."
The correction was laconic. But the stranger's smile stretched wider as he made it, and Gomez felt a shiver run down his spine.
This whole situation was starting to feel bad.
"Commander."
Gomez corrected himself without really knowing why he was doing it. His mouth had gone dry.
"Congratulations. I, uh . . . I better be going. Home."
The commander wagged a finger.
"Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast. I have some questions for you. And as it happens, your lovely young wife isn't home."
"She's not?" The rest of the sentence pushed through the fog of tiredness, and Gomez froze. "How do you know about my wife?"
"Your marriage is a matter of public record. As are a number of other details pertaining to your wife."
The commander punched something into his wrist computer, and a hologram of Gomez and Xandri's marriage certificate appeared. He scrolled past it, through hospital records and police incident reports.
Beneath his confusion, Gomez felt a faint stirring of anger. This stuff was Xandri's private business. He shouldn't be seeing any of it.
The commander clicked his tongue against his teeth, disapproving.
"Unpaid debts, a history of domestic disturbances . . . what's this? Outstanding warrant for the theft of a hoverbike? Oh dear. How disappointing it must be for you, to be married to a criminal."
"I . . ."
She's not a criminal, and you're not a cop, Gomez wanted to say. But something about the dead eyes of the commander made the words shrivel up in his throat.
"I suspect I would have enjoyed testing the limits of your wife's endurance," the man said mildly, as if he was commenting on the weather. "You seem like a law-abiding young man. She would have deserved her punishment more. But . . . priorities. Time is of the essence, and I need information."
Gomez staggered, dizzy. This couldn't be real. A commander in the DOOP had just threatened to torture his wife. The world felt like it had shifted at a Dutch angle.
The commander was still talking.
"You seem like the path of least resistance," he said. "And as the lease-holder of the apartment, I suspect it was you who first befriended Mr Fry."
"Fry?" Gomez stared. This turn of events was so weird it had momentarily snapped him back to reality. "This is about Fry?"
"Yes."
Another few taps on the wrist computer, and a hologram of Fry's face appeared, revolving gently in the air between them. He looked younger than he had when Gomez first met him, and wore a goofy, untroubled expression. But it was unmistakably him.
"It may surprise you to learn that you are Mr Fry's last known address."
"Uh . . ."
"Given that he lived with you under an assumed name. His employment records for Mars Vegas were also under this assumed name."
A vein twitched in the commander's forehead, a sign of some deep, suppressed irritation. A hologram of Fry's casino contract appeared, zoomed in to show his signature as a scrawled 'Yancy Fry'.
His brother's name, Gomez remembered. Fry had been using it to hide from his friends, from his ex-girlfriend, and partly, Gomez suspected, from himself.
The commander was watching him, with eyes that glittered like a snake's.
"He was careless with the disguise."
The holo-signature in mid-air faded away, to be replaced by a sound waves graphic. A voice recording.
It was Fry. He sounded drunk.
" . . . yeah, yeah, super deluxe . . . and anchovies, on half. Fake anchovies. Future anchovies. They're not as good but they're still salty . . . deliciousness . . ."
"Sir? Sir, wake up."
"Huh?"
"You want anchovies on only half the pizza?"
"'m awake. Yeah. Half. And half . . . barbecue . . . buggalo."
"Half anchovy, half BBQ. Weird combination. But I'm not paid to judge. You want dip with that?"
"I 'unno. Who cares? Wait! Wait. Yeah. One of those little pots of motor oil."
"Sir, those aren't recommended for human consumption."
"'s for my friend. He's a robot."
"If you say so. That'll be $19.95."
"I could go home. We could share. Like we used to. The three of us. Captain Yesterday, and Robo-King, and . . . Cloberella."
"If you say so, sir. What name will I put on the order?"
" . . . but I can't go home. It's gone. It's over. I ran away. Like a coward. Like a weasel. Like a -"
"Sir, the name?"
"Oh, yeah. Fry. Philip J Fry. Phil."
"Thank you, sir. Your order will be with you in 23 minutes or less, or it's on us! Have a pizza-rriffic evening!"
The recording flat-lined and faded away.
"This call was made from your apartment."
The commander watched him expectantly, while Gomez wondered what he was supposed to say. Food service calls were always recorded on Mars, in case the caller didn't pay. It wasn't so surprising the DOOP could access them. And if they'd done a search, a bot trawl for the name "Philip J Fry", it made sense that it would lead them here.
But why would anyone go to all that effort to find Fry? They were acting like he was some kind of serial killer.
"That call was months ago," Gomez said cautiously. "He hasn't lived here for months."
The commander said nothing. He just waited, drawing out the silence until it became uncomfortable.
"Look," Gomez said at last. "I don't know what happened with Fry. But if he deserted or something . . . I'm sure he didn't mean to. He's a good guy. Maybe he just got . . ." That stare was still boring into him. "Overwhelmed," he finished weakly.
The commander raised an eyebrow.
"Interesting," he mused. "Now, why would you think your friend deserted the DOOP?"
Gomez swallowed.
"I don't know. It was just a guess. You're in the DOOP, and you're looking for him, and you seem mad so I - I guessed."
"Hmm. Or, you saw Philip J Fry. Recently. Wearing a stolen DOOP uniform, perhaps?"
He knew.
There was no mistaking the look the man was giving Gomez now. His eyes glittered with pure malice.
Gomez swallowed, again.
"No," he said slowly. "I haven't seen him. I don't know where he is."
He took a step back, and wondered if he could risk another.
"So you haven't seen him?"
"No."
"And you have no idea where he is now?"
"No."
The commander wagged his finger again, and made a chiding sound. Tsk, tsk.
"It would have been so much more convenient if you'd told the truth."
He snapped his fingers, and the two men behind him stepped forward in sync to grab Gomez. They pinned his arms in a crushing grip.
"Shall I tell you the last time I saw Philip J Fry?" the man hissed. "He was wearing a stolen uniform, and consorting with criminals of the very lowest order. In fact, he tried to kill me." The man touched his throat. His smile hardened into a snarl. "And then he left me for dead in a burning building."
"I don't believe you."
The words were out before Gomez could stop them. Fry was a lot of things, but a cold-blooded murderer wasn't one of them. Whatever had happened while he was away - whatever he'd done to get on the wrong side of this creepy psychopath - there had to be more to the story.
Fry had been scared when he showed up on New Year's Eve. Gomez was starting to understand why.
"I don't want to be involved in this. I already told you, I don't know anything. And I don't want to know. Let me go, please."
He struggled against his captors. They were as immovable as stone, and almost as unblinking. They didn't so much as flinch as Gomez threw himself back and forth, hurling himself at them at full strength.
Their eyes were glazed and unseeing. Gomez had never seen even drugs make someone look so vacant.
Another shiver ran down his spine. There were so many internal klaxons going off inside his head, he could hardly think. Panic was squeezing at his throat.
"Are they hypnotized? Hey! Hey! What's wrong with them?"
The commander pulled an omni-tool from his belt and began to flick lazily through the settings. Laser, hunting knife, diamondillium blade . . . pliers . . .
He looked up.
"Hmm? Oh, them. They've been subjected to a powerful brainwashing process. It enables them to carry out the primary directive, without the need for direct control. It is primitive, of course. Like using a nuclear warhead to knock down a wall. But, like the nuclear warhead, it has the benefit of being effective over distance." He waved a dismissive hand. "It does have the unfortunate side effect of continuously eroding gray matter. Soon enough my troops will forget to breathe, blink, sleep and so forth. And eventually, die. But no matter. They can be replaced."
Gomez could only stare in horror.
"The DOOP did this to people? You're burning up people's brains to make them . . . more focused soldiers? That's . . . that's evil."
The commander laughed.
"The DOOP? The DOOP is an irrelevance. The petty infighting of lesser creatures. No, we were simply bent to the will of a superior species. The brains of the operation, if you will."
He laughed again, though Gomez couldn't see what was so funny.
"I was lucky," the commander continued. "As my own desires aligned so closely with their prime directive, my superiors were able to employ a less rigid form of mind control. They altered some of my memories. Amplified some of my emotions. Switched off others entirely. Pain was not necessary for me to feel, and so, I don't feel it any more. Of course, the relationship has been beneficial for them too. In retaining more of my organic cognition, my abilities can be more effectively harnessed, in pursuit of the primary directive."
"Abilities?"
There was that creepy smile again.
"Yes. I have an understanding of human weaknesses that has proved, shall we say . . . useful to them. I can go where they cannot. Do things they cannot."
Gomez was sweating now.
"You keep talking," he croaked, "about a - a prime directive -"
Something shuttered off in the commander's expression, and for an instant he was as blank and empty as the brainwashed soldiers behind him.
"The primary directive is to find and destroy Philip J Fry."
Gomez had that feeling again. The Dutch angle feeling, as if the world had slipped off its axis.
Fear was spreading through him like black ink.
"I won't help you," he stammered. "You can't make me. There's nothing you can do. I won't -"
The commander laughed. A cold, cruel laugh.
"It's funny," he said idly. "That's what they all say. And they all seem to believe it, too."
He raised the pliers, his cruel smile spreading wider.
"At first."