Shadows of the Red Dust
In the rust-choked underbelly of New Elysium Colony, where the wind howled like a grieving widow across the iron plains of Mars, two private investigators stepped off a battered crawler into the perpetual twilight of the excavation zone. Jürgen Linski, shoulders hunched against the cold that seeped through his enviro-suit, lit a contraband cigarette inside his helmet—a habit that made the filters scream. Beside him, Denis Guiligan scanned the jagged horizon, eyes narrowed behind his visor.
“Another day in paradise,” Linski muttered, voice gravelly. “Ghost stories and collapsing scaffolds. What’s next, vampires in the regolith?”
Denis didn’t smile. “The workers aren’t laughing, Jürgen. Six dead in three weeks. They say the fossils are waking up.”
They were met at the command prefab by Inspector Emily McCormick, her uniform streaked with Martian dust. She slammed a datapad onto the metal table, the hologram flickering like a dying star.
“Gentlemen, I don’t have time for folklore,” she snapped, rubbing her temples. “The city’s water reserves hit critical yesterday. If we don’t hit the aquifer in the next cycle, New Elysium starts rationing corpses instead of liters. What I need is proof these ‘accidents’ are sabotage, not some ancient arthropod curse.”
Linski leaned back, exhaling smoke that fogged his faceplate. “And what do you think, Inspector? That the dead bugs are unionizing?”
McCormick’s glare could have cracked basalt. “I think desperation makes people stupid. Talk to Chief Engineer James. He’s the one who keeps muttering about ‘disturbed layers.’”
Brian James waited for them in the drilling oversight pod, a gaunt man whose face looked carved from the same rock they were pulverizing. He gestured at the seismic readouts dancing across the screens.
“I’ve run the numbers a hundred times,” James said quietly. “The fractures aren’t random. Every time we punch deeper, something… shifts. The fossils aren’t just old—they’re different. Arthropods, yes, but with exoskeletons that don’t match any catalog. Like they were waiting.” He lowered his voice. “The board wants them for the university labs. Sell the story of ‘pioneering xenopaleontology’ while the city dies of thirst. Lives are cheaper than headlines.”
Denis crouched beside a cluster of workers on break, their faces hollow behind cracked visors. One man, hands trembling as he gripped a ration bar, whispered, “I saw it, mate. Last shift. A shape in the dust cloud—too many legs, clicking. Then the crane cable snapped like it was cut by God himself. Tommy was under it. Gone in a second.”
Another worker spat. “They say if you listen at night, you can hear the fossils singing. Low. Like the planet remembering what we did to it.”
Linski, meanwhile, cornered James again in the equipment bay. “You’re scared, Chief. Not of ghosts. Of what this place really is.”
James met his eyes. “I’m scared we’re digging up something that was buried for a reason. The city doesn’t care. Water today, extinction tomorrow. Pick your poison.”
The lead that broke the case came from an old survey drone log: a sealed fissure two kilometers down, older than the arthropod layer. Something below the fossils. They descended together as the wind rose.
The accident hit without warning.
A loader rig toppled in slow motion through the thin air, its massive arm swinging like the hand of an angry god. Denis dove, tackling a screaming worker out of the path—but the secondary collapse caught him. Metal screamed. Dust swallowed everything.
Linski dragged his partner from the wreckage, Denis’s leg twisted at an ugly angle, suit integrity alarm blaring. For the first time in years, the cynicism cracked.
“Stay with me, you idiot,” Linski growled, voice thick. “I’m not hauling your ghost back to base.”
Later, in the infirmary pod, Denis winced through the painkillers. “You felt it too, didn’t you? The guilt. We’ve been treating this planet like it owes us.”
Linski stared at the red horizon. “Yeah. Maybe I have.”
They stormed the command center as another tremor shook the site. McCormick stood flanked by corporate suits, the water extraction countdown ticking on every screen.
“Shut it down,” Linski demanded. “Bury the fossils properly. Whatever’s down there doesn’t want to be disturbed.”
McCormick’s face hardened. “And let the colony die? Thirty thousand people, Linski. You want their blood on your hands instead?”
Brian James looked between them, broken. “There’s only one way. We extract just enough for survival… then we seal the lower chambers. Reinter what we can. A funeral, not an excavation.”
Denis, limping on a brace, stepped forward. “Then let’s give the dead their due.”
The final push was chaos. Workers, investigators, and even reluctant guards formed a desperate line, hauling fossils from the exposed strata under flickering emergency lights. The planet fought back. A final cavern collapse roared down as the pumps hit critical yield.
Denis was there when the last trapped crew screamed for help. He dragged two out before the support beam gave way.
Linski watched from the ridge as the medics pulled his partner’s broken body from the rubble. The water flowed at last—clear, precious, life-giving—pouring into the city’s veins.
New Elysium drank deep that night. Lights blazed across the domes, toasts were raised, and the colony celebrated its survival. But on the ridge overlooking the sealed excavation scar, Jürgen Linski stood alone, a single red rose—smuggled from the Cap city’s precious hydroponics—placed atop a modest cairn of stones.
The wind whispered across the dust, carrying faint echoes that might have been singing, or might have been only memory.
Denis survived, barely. In the quiet hours of recovery, the two men shared a bottle of contraband whiskey.
“We stopped the curse,” Denis said softly.
Linski stared into the glass. “No. We just negotiated a truce. The planet remembers, partner. And one day, when the water runs low again, it’ll remind us who really owns this world.”
Beneath the ambitious city, the true history of Mars remained buried—not in fossils, but in the uneasy silence between progress and reverence. The ghosts did not vanish.
They simply waited. Patient as stone. Ancient as the red dust that would, in the end, claim them all.
The endless tunnels beneath New Olympus had never seen the sun.
Their ceilings disappeared into darkness beyond the reach of maintenance lamps. Water condensed on steel ribs supporting the galleries before dripping onto cracked concrete. Ventilation turbines hummed day and night, carrying the metallic smell of aluminum dust through every corridor.
Private investigators Jürgen Linski and Denis Guiligan hated the district.
"It's like somebody built a city inside an old submarine," Denis muttered.
"And forgot to dry it."
The pair stepped into the offices of Helios Aluminum Corporation, the largest producer of refined aluminum on Mars.
Its chairman, Victor Harland, waited behind a polished desk carved from a single slab of Martian basalt. He looked exhausted rather than powerful.
"I suppose everyone already believes I tried to murder my ex-wife."
Jürgen nodded.
"Did you?"
"No."
The answer came without hesitation.
Harland poured himself a coffee.
"My former wife, Martha Harland, now leads the Aluminum Workers' Union. Every negotiation turns into a public execution. She accuses me of exploiting workers. I accuse her of strangling production."
"Not exactly a friendly divorce," Denis observed.
Harland gave a bitter smile.
"We haven't exchanged a pleasant sentence in fifteen years."
"So why hire us?"
"Because yesterday someone tried to shoot her."
Martha Harland survived because the sniper's bullet struck a reinforced pillar before grazing her shoulder.
The attack happened during a union speech in Mine Sector Twelve.
Thousands of miners now demanded Victor Harland's arrest.
The newspapers had already convicted him.
The union headquarters contrasted sharply with corporate luxury. Rust covered the walls. Old ventilation fans rattled overhead. Workers applauded when Martha entered with her arm in a sling.
"A dramatic entrance," Denis whispered.
"Maybe she's simply brave."
Martha greeted the detectives politely.
"I know why you're here."
"You think Victor ordered the assassination?"
"I know he did."
"You sound very certain."
"He loses millions every month because of our strikes," she said, her voice steady and cold.
Jürgen watched her carefully.
She looked more angry than frightened.
The crime scene overlooked an abandoned loading platform.
The sniper had fired from nearly six hundred meters away through maintenance ducts.
Only one cartridge case remained.
Professional.
The escape route crossed forgotten service tunnels flooded ankle-deep in rusty water.
Jürgen crouched beside muddy footprints.
"Military boots."
Denis pointed toward fresh scratches on a ventilation hatch.
"He knew these tunnels."
Their investigation led them through illegal bars, mining barracks, and abandoned maintenance sectors.
Eventually, an informant identified the shooter: a former security contractor.
Name: Leon Krass.
Excellent marksman. Missing for three years. Recently seen accepting expensive jobs.
Finding him proved easier than expected. Krass occupied an abandoned air purification station. He escaped before they could arrest him. The chase carried them through dripping maintenance corridors where warning lights painted everything crimson. Krass nearly disappeared into the darkness until Denis tackled him down a staircase.
The assassin surrendered.
"I'll talk."
Jürgen handcuffed him.
"Who hired you?"
Krass laughed.
"You'll never believe—"
A shot echoed.
His forehead exploded against the concrete.
Silence followed.
At the far end of the corridor stood Martha Harland. Smoke curled from the barrel of her compact pistol as she lowered it slowly.
"So much for your witness," Denis said.
"He was about to kill one of you."
"He was handcuffed."
"He wasn't harmless," she insisted, her finger still tense near the trigger.
Jürgen looked at the dead assassin.
One perfectly placed shot.
No hesitation.
"You followed us."
"I wanted justice."
The official inquiry concluded that Martha had saved the detectives from a dangerous killer. The public celebrated her. Union membership doubled within a week. Victor Harland remained under suspicion, but no evidence connected him to the assassination attempt.
The case should have been closed.
Instead, Jürgen kept thinking.
He spread photographs across his apartment table.
The bullet trajectory.
The cartridge.
The speech schedule.
The union posters.
Something refused to fit.
Then he saw it.
The sniper's position.
From six hundred meters away, Leon Krass could have killed Martha with ease.
Instead, the bullet struck a pillar first.
An impossible mistake for a man with military training.
Unless...
He had never intended to hit her.
The detectives visited Victor Harland one final time.
"We know you didn't hire Krass."
Harland leaned back.
"I've been saying that from the beginning."
"You still benefited from nothing. Your reputation collapsed."
"What are you suggesting?"
"Someone else benefited."
Jürgen never confronted Martha.
He had no witness.
No confession.
No weapon tying her to a conspiracy. Only logic.
She had hired Krass herself. The sniper deliberately missed. A wounded union leader became a martyr overnight. Public sympathy strengthened her bargaining position. Then the detectives did something unexpected. They found the assassin alive before anyone else could silence him. So she followed them...
...and made certain Leon Krass never revealed who had signed the contract.
Weeks later, miners celebrated another successful strike.
Martha Harland stood above the crowd, hailed as the fearless woman who had survived corporate violence.
Victor Harland continued managing Helios Aluminum under constant public hatred.
Neither side truly won.
As they left the mining district, Denis sighed.
"So the innocent man is still everyone's villain."
"And the guilty one is everyone's hero."
Water dripped from the tunnel ceiling. The echoes swallowed their footsteps.
On Mars, truth was another mineral buried beneath too many layers of stone.
Cosmoweres - Chapter 8 - The Egg
Jürgen Linski and Denis Guiligan were working their butts off on small cases, tailing unfaithful spouses or infiltrating trucking companies to find out who had stolen merchandise somewhere along the chain of custody. It was time consuming work for only moderate rewards compared to their usual standards. They hoped to keep their earnings up for tax reasons.
Denis suspected a shady delivery driver of being the culprit, but something unexpected happened.
The suspect was shot by an invisible figure while Denis was tailing him.
Denis ran after the murderer but only managed to hear the victim's last words.
"Don't let them win... it's at Deancross Rail Station," he said as he handed Denis a locker key.
"Who are they? What's in the locker?" Denis asked, trying to stop the bleeding.
But it was too late. The man was dead.
Denis called the police but kept the key to himself, unsure whether he could trust the authorities.
"We've already got enough problems with this epidemic of small cases. Why did you take it? It's not like he can pay us now," pointed out Jürgen, who had come to pick Denis up from the police station.
"Well, maybe there's cash inside that locker," Denis countered, only half joking.
"I wish! But okay, let's give it a shot," said Jürgen as he headed toward Deancross Rail Station.
It didn't take them long to find the locker. Inside was a cardboard box.
"Well, it's not a bomb," said Jürgen.
"Too small," Denis agreed.
Jürgen opened the box. Inside was a blue egg. It didn't look like much. Why would anybody kill for an egg?
But the moment Jürgen touched it, the egg reacted. Every conversation in the station stopped, as though someone had called for absolute silence and Jürgen had suddenly become the center of everyone's attention.
Everyone's eyes turned toward him. Their pupils had vanished, leaving blank, empty stares.
Jürgen snatched his hand away and quickly closed the box, alarmed that even his partner had fallen under the egg's influence.
"All right... it's magical. Maybe even demonic," said Jürgen.
"Did you see something?" Denis asked. He hadn't noticed anything unusual, just like everyone else in the station.
"It's some kind of temporary mass possession effect. It could be useful for robbing a bank or a jewelry store, but I suspect it's capable of much more than that. You were possessed by it too, by the way," said Jürgen.
"You're kidding... You're not kidding," Denis replied as Jürgen gave him a serious look.
Jürgen and Denis spent days trying to discover the egg's origin and who wanted it so badly.
By a stroke of luck, they noticed they were being watched by a nearly invisible person from the same building where someone had already attacked them in another case. They had set up an automated ward there to catch anyone acting suspiciously.
When they caught the spy, they got their answer. It was written all over his face. He was a part-human, part-demon from the Yahoo clan.
"So you guys are looking after pure demons now? Why do you need it?" asked Jürgen.
"I won't tell you anything," answered the defiant Yahoo.
"All right, then we can just boil the egg and eat it," said Denis as he reached for the box.
"Don't do that! It's the future Oracle!" snapped the Yahoo.
"An Oracle? But there is no fate, only what we make of it," recited Jürgen.
"This creature will change Mars. It can see beyond free will. It's a new kind of future for all of us," explained the part-demon.
"I don't think I want that to happen. Let's just boil it, shall we?" said Denis.
"You won't kill it! It will come back in another form!" warned the prisoner.
"We don't want a new destiny god. Boiled egg it is," said Jürgen.
And they boiled the future Oracle. They split it in two and ate it with some Béarnaise sauce.
The End.
Chapter 7 – Paradise on Mars
Private investigators Jürgen Linski and his partner, Denis Guiligan, had narrowly avoided becoming celebrities after the case of the Commander impostor. It was paramount for them to keep a low profile in case they ever needed to infiltrate suspicious communities. And fate had chosen precisely that moment to hand them such an undercover case.
"We knew our son Dan was a troubled kid, always hanging out with the wrong crowd, but we never expected him to join a cult," began Dan's father.
"We need you to bring him back to us. We've arranged for him to be treated by a deprogrammer named Beneth & Smith at South Reel Colony. All you need to do is find him and bring him there," added Dan's mother, handing them a Beneth & Smith business card.
"Do you know which cult recruited him? We'll also need a recent photograph of Dan. How old is he?" asked Jürgen.
"The cult is called Paradise on Mars. Dan is seventeen years old," replied his father.
"I have this picture of him. It was taken last month," said his mother as she handed the photograph to Denis while Jürgen took notes behind his desk.
"You did the right thing by coming to us. Since he isn't eighteen yet, we can legally return him to his family. If you had waited, it would have become a legal grey area," Denis said as he examined the photograph.
"Thank you so much," said Dan's mother.
"We should be able to do it within a week. Our fees will be around two thousand credits. Locating your son could prove difficult, so we can't make any promises just yet," said Jürgen as he studied the picture.
"Do your best. We can afford it," replied Dan's father as he stood up and shook both investigators' hands.
Jürgen and Denis searched deep into police records and cross-referenced them with the Tax Revenue Service to reconstruct Paradise on Mars' organizational structure. It was a small organization centered around greenhouses and fruit cultivation. They also raised cows for milk but did not eat beef. It was amusing how detailed the police reports were. Artificially grown meat was also forbidden within the cult.
"It seems they send all new recruits to Saint Green Junction in Valles Marineris," Denis said after reading through half of the reports.
"They grow excellent food there. I had no idea part of it was run by a cult," commented Jürgen while sipping his favorite brand of coffee.
"I suppose farming the old-fashioned way appeals to young people," Denis added.
"The cultivation dome has several unsecured airlocks to make exports easier. That'll be our escape route," said Jürgen.
"Air extraction will be our only option. Here's another interesting detail. The reports mention that older members who fail to master the farming techniques eventually return to society, mostly to work in the semi-automated mining industry."
"Aluminum structures for domes and cities are still in high demand all over the planet. Do the reports mention whether former members stay in contact with the cult? Maybe it shows up in their tax records," asked Denis.
"Some of them still donate a small monthly fee, but most can only afford to order food from the cult once a month. Most former members also remain close to one of the cult's settlements," replied Jürgen as he reviewed summaries prepared by the public AI assistant.
"Well, I hope you enjoy farming," Denis joked.
"Infiltrating Paradise on Mars won't be much fun without meat," Jürgen replied.
They then prepared fake identification papers and rehearsed their cover stories until they were ready for almost any question. They entered the cult separately to avoid raising suspicion.
It took them two days at their respective recruitment centers before they were granted permission to join the newcomers' farming community. Coincidentally, they traveled aboard the same underground train, where all the district's new recruits had been gathered. Outside the tunnel was pitch black, you could hear the sound of the wheels on steel rails between the cars. It was a cheaply built train but still sturdy.
By a stroke of luck, they spotted Dan after quietly making their way through each train car.
Although they were older than most of the newcomers, they were both muscular werewolves and were quickly accepted into the workforce.
Now they simply had to befriend Dan and find an opportunity to extract him. Before leaving, they had contacted Inspector Emily from the police, who agreed to pick them up in a police aircraft. Once they located their client's son, Emily received the signal. Denis discreetly slipped a satellite tracker into Dan's back pocket, just in case. All they needed now was the right opportunity to knock him unconscious and reach one of the cultivation dome's airlocks.
Fortunately, they managed to slip away from the other cult members shortly after arriving. They invited Dan to take a walk around the dome so they could "get in touch with nature in their own way."
The werewolves understood how the cult managed to recruit so many people. The green dome was a wonder. It smelled grass, there was fresh water fountains and brooks all over the fields. You could smell tomatoes from the gravel path. Small forgotten pleasures were regrouped in this huge dome.
But the pair of investigator had a mission, they could get side tracked by nature's beauty.
"Let's go take a closer look at the export airlocks, Dan," said Jürgen.
"It's amazing to think we'll be growing food for so many brothers and sisters outside," added Denis.
"We'll probably have to get used to these airlocks if we want to do our jobs," Dan agreed.
Waiting outside the airlock was Emily with the police prisoner transport aircraft.
Everything happened quickly. Jürgen knocked Dan unconscious while Denis opened the airlock. Together they carried Dan aboard Emily's aircraft, handcuffed him to the wall, and manually sealed the airlock behind them without leaving any trace. This escape route might prove useful for rescuing future victims.
The flight to Beneth & Smith at South Reel Colony was long. Even by air, it took nearly five hours. Along the way, they stopped at a fast-food restaurant they knew had no ties to Paradise on Mars. Cheeseburgers and diet soda lifted everyone's spirits, but Dan remained silent and refused to eat.
"We should've asked his parents more questions before the extraction. It might have helped us understand him before the deprogramming," Jürgen commented as he sat beside Emily in the aircraft's automated cockpit.
"Maybe he's allergic to cheeseburgers," Emily suggested with a grin.
"Heh. That alone would explain why he joined a cult," Jürgen replied.
"Denis might be able to get him talking before we arrive, but we're almost there," Emily said while checking the instruments.
"These days, with brain implants and hypnosis therapy, we're probably capable of helping a lost teenager like Dan," Jürgen added.
"We're just above South Reel Colony. Looks like they have a vertical landing pad. I hope Beneth & Smith can get to the bottom of this," Emily concluded as she looked down through the aircraft's radiation-shielded windows.
Chapter 6 - Doppleganger
In the upper-class secured quarters beneath the Martian surface, calm classical music drifted through lush, vegetalized corridors. Here, the ruling elite lived disciplined and orderly lives. They controlled most of the Martian private sector but had little authority over the Commander's public domains: justice, weapons manufacturing, and the production and distribution of fresh water.
The Commander was revered throughout the upper class. Among his closest companions was his favorite mistress, Elara. She was intelligent, charming, deeply devoted, and gifted with both a keen eye and a sharper mind.
Lately, however, something felt wrong.
The Commander, once passionate and decisive, had become distant. His latest directives called for producing more weapons and appointing fewer judges. To many, the shift seemed dangerously unbalanced.
Small details disturbed Elara. He now preferred heavily spiced food. He avoided their usual late-night conversations. Even his gaze seemed strangely hollow.
It gnawed at her.
One evening, as they shared a quiet dinner, Elara noticed another unsettling detail.
"You've changed your perfume," she said softly.
The Commander smiled.
"Have I? I suppose I fancied a change."
She forced a smile, but inside she froze.
When the Commander's cat approached, it suddenly hissed and darted beneath a chair.
"That's odd," Elara murmured.
"It must be sick," the Commander replied dismissively.
The animal had adored him for years.
The thought of a doppelganger crept into Elara's mind.
Could it really be possible?
She needed proof.
Later that night, during an intimate moment, she carefully collected a small sample of his saliva while kissing him. The act felt reckless, but desperation overcame caution.
Private investigators Jürgen Linski and his longtime partner, Denis Guiligan, were among the few people Elara trusted completely. They agreed to conduct a discreet, off-the-record investigation.
"If you're wrong," Denis warned, "we'll look like fools."
"And if I'm right?" Elara asked.
Jürgen exchanged a glance with his partner.
"Then Mars has a much bigger problem."
The DNA analysis confirmed their worst fears.
The sample did not belong to the real Commander.
"This isn't him," Jürgen said quietly.
Silence filled the room.
"But where is the real Commander?" Elara whispered.
Jürgen and Denis insisted they had to locate the real Commander before exposing the impostor.
"If we accuse the double without proof," Jürgen explained, "his guards will kill us before we finish the sentence."
They began investigating the list of prisoners awaiting capital punishment. It would have been the perfect place to hide the real Commander before eliminating him without leaving any trace.
Their suspicions proved correct.
Among the prison records they discovered a special execution order personally signed by the Commander himself.
"Too convenient," Denis muttered.
"It wasn't signed by the Commander," Elara replied. "It was signed by the thing pretending to be him."
Breaking into the prison complex would be nearly impossible.
Fortunately, a small pack of bulletproof werewolves empowered by the ancient magic of Phobos agreed to help.
Elara waited outside behind the controls of an armored vehicle.
The distant echo of gunfire rolled through the underground tunnels.
"Come on..." she whispered, gripping the steering wheel.
At last the doors burst open.
"They're coming!" shouted one of the werewolves.
The group raced aboard the vehicle with the weakened Commander.
Elara slammed the accelerator, and they escaped through forgotten surface trenches leading toward abandoned mining tunnels.
Once safe, Jürgen, Denis, Elara, and the rescued Commander devised a plan to expose the impostor.
They hijacked a communication satellite and broadcast a pirate transmission across the colony.
"My fellow Martians," the Commander declared on every screen, "the man giving you orders is not your Commander."
The revelation spread like wildfire.
The Commander's own security forces immediately detained the doppelganger and demanded genetic verification.
The truth emerged.
The real Commander had been imprisoned while an impostor ruled in his place, manipulating the colony from within.
An intercepted encrypted message revealed the conspiracy's origin.
Several kingdoms on Earth had orchestrated the plot in an attempt to seize control of Mars' public sector.
Their plan had nearly succeeded.
But loyalty proved stronger than deception.
Elara's doubts had saved an entire civilization.
Though shaken by his captivity, the Commander reclaimed his authority with renewed determination.
Standing beside him, Elara felt forever changed.
The mystery had tested both her intelligence and her courage, but it had also strengthened the bond between them.
Trust was fragile.
Yet together they would restore stability to Mars, ensuring that no shadow would ever again wear the Commander's face.
The luxury cruise liner Azure Pearl glided silently through the darkness between Earth and Mars. Its silver hull reflected distant stars like scattered diamonds, while vast observation windows offered passengers breathtaking views of nebulae and drifting asteroids.
The voyage was meant to be a reward.
Private Investigator Jürgen Linski and his longtime partner Denis Guiligan had been granted complimentary passage by the Martian authorities after solving the infamous Moon Lich affair. For the first time in months, neither detective expected trouble.
Trouble, however, had purchased a ticket.
The ship's grand ballroom shimmered beneath crystal chandeliers. Wealthy merchants, politicians, and celebrities danced beneath painted ceilings depicting the legendary canals of ancient Mars. Fine perfumes mixed with expensive wines while musicians performed soft melodies from a floating stage.
Then, shortly after midnight, the music stopped.
A scream echoed through the corridors.
Within minutes, the ship's security forces had sealed off the treasury gallery.
The famous sapphire known as The Heart of Siren's Song had vanished.
The gemstone rested moments earlier inside a reinforced display case protected by magical wards and electronic alarms. Now only shattered glass remained.
Jürgen arrived at the scene while security officers hurried about.
His sharp grey eyes examined every detail.
Jewelry boxes had been overturned across the floor. Tiny fragments of glass glittered beneath the emergency lights. Faint scuff marks led toward a maintenance staircase rarely used by passengers.
"Nothing disappears," Jürgen murmured. "It merely changes location."
The investigation began immediately.
Among the passengers interviewed was Lydia Hartman, wife of the ship's owner. Elegant and poised, she seemed more upset about the embarrassment than the theft itself.
"The sapphire was the centerpiece of tomorrow's charity auction," she explained. "Its disappearance is a disaster."
Captain Gregory Wells was equally troubled.
"The security systems never failed," he insisted. "Someone knew exactly how to bypass them."
Then there was Theo Malone, a professional gambler whose smile seemed permanently attached to his face.
"A jewel like that?" Theo laughed. "Too hot for me. I'd rather steal from a casino."
Jürgen noted every statement.
Yet none of the clues fit together.
Then the case took a shocking turn.
The following morning, security officers searched the passenger cabins.
A cry of triumph came from the detectives' suite.
Hidden inside Denis's luggage was a velvet pouch.
Inside lay the missing sapphire.
The discovery sent waves of excitement through the ship.
Denis was immediately detained.
"You've got to be kidding," Denis protested as officers escorted him to an interview room.
Unfortunately, the evidence was devastating.
Worse still, Denis had no alibi.
During the time of the theft, he had been alone wandering the ship.
Even Jürgen was forced to admit the circumstances looked terrible.
The board police quickly focused their investigation on Denis. Rumors spread through the vessel faster than solar wind. Passengers whispered whenever he passed.
Still, Jürgen refused to believe it.
Something bothered him.
The sapphire had been hidden too perfectly.
Almost as if someone wanted it found.
That evening, Jürgen reviewed the ship's maintenance logs. One detail stood out.
Several hours before the theft, a security door leading to a restricted service corridor had been opened.
The records showed no authorized personnel in the area.
Jürgen visited Denis in detention.
"Think carefully," he said. "Did you see anything unusual last night?"
Denis frowned.
At first, nothing came to mind.
Then his eyes widened.
"Wait."
Jürgen leaned forward.
"I couldn't sleep," Denis said. "I went for a walk around midnight. I got lost near the lower decks."
"The restricted area?"
"Yes. I remember now. I saw someone coming out of a maintenance corridor."
"Who?"
"I didn't recognize him then. He wore a service uniform and turned away before I got a good look."
Denis paused.
"But he looked nervous. When he noticed me, he immediately walked off."
The forgotten memory gave Jürgen exactly what he needed.
Returning to the maintenance corridor, he inspected the area more carefully. Hidden behind a ventilation panel he discovered traces of magical dye used by the ship's engineering crew.
Only one person aboard matched the evidence.
A maintenance technician named Victor Crane.
Crane had access to the treasury systems, the restricted corridors, and every security checkpoint on the ship.
More importantly, Jürgen learned that Denis had unknowingly crossed paths with Crane shortly before the theft.
The thief had recognized Denis.
Denis could identify him.
So Crane had planted the sapphire in Denis's cabin to remove the only witness who could place him near the crime scene.
Jürgen arranged a confrontation in the ship's observation lounge.
Surrounded by officers, passengers, and the captain, he calmly presented his findings.
"The sapphire was never meant to stay hidden," he explained. "The real purpose of planting it was to frame an innocent man."
Crane's face slowly lost its color.
"The maintenance logs place you in the restricted corridor. Traces of engineering dye were found behind the hidden access panel. Most importantly, Denis saw you leaving the area shortly before the theft."
The technician broke.
His shoulders slumped.
Then he confessed.
He had planned to sell the sapphire to smugglers waiting near Mars. When Denis unexpectedly saw him in the forbidden corridor, Crane realized he had become a dangerous witness.
Planting the jewel in Denis's luggage seemed the perfect solution.
The confession cleared Denis immediately.
Captain Wells personally apologized.
Lydia Hartman thanked both detectives for recovering the sapphire.
Theo Malone celebrated by winning a substantial amount at the casino and generously buying drinks for half the passengers.
Three days later, as Mars slowly grew larger beyond the observation windows, Denis joined Jürgen on the promenade deck.
"You know," Denis said, "next time someone offers us a free luxury vacation, we should refuse."
Jürgen stared at the red planet ahead.
"We said the same thing after the Moon Lich case."
"True."
"And yet somehow corpses, thieves, and conspiracies continue to find us."
Denis laughed.
The Azure Pearl continued toward Mars beneath a sea of stars, carrying hundreds of passengers and one less criminal than before.
For Jürgen Linski, it had been another successful investigation.
For Denis, it had been a valuable lesson.
If you happen to witness a thief in a forbidden corridor at midnight, write it down immediately.
Chapter 4 – The Lunar Lich
The cargo vessel Celestial Jasmine was expected to dock before dawn, carrying a shipment of tea leaves unlike any other. The plants had been cultivated beneath the silver domes of a Chinese lunar agricultural complex, where carefully controlled sunlight and mineral-rich regolith produced a flavor prized throughout the Solar System.
For the werewolves of Mars, tea was more than a beverage. It had become a ritual, a comfort carried across the void from humanity's ancient past. Every colony possessed its tea halls, every pack its ceremony. The fragrant drink was served before councils, celebrations, and solemn remembrances. Some joked that tea had become the true sacred fuel of Martian civilization.
That devotion, however, created a dangerous vulnerability.
As a matter of policy, every incoming shipment underwent extensive screening before distribution. The first laboratory reports stunned the inspectors. The tea was saturated with lethal toxins. Not traces. Not contamination. Someone had deliberately poisoned the entire cargo.
News of the discovery reached Martian authorities within hours. Mars had long maintained an independent food-security doctrine and trusted neither Earth nor the Moon to investigate matters that threatened its population. Unfortunately, most official investigators were weeks away.
By sheer coincidence, two accredited Martian agents happened to be on vacation on the Moon.
Jürgen and Denis had planned to spend several quiet days exploring the lunar settlements. Instead, their leave was abruptly interrupted by an urgent transmission from Mars. Temporary investigative credentials were issued, and orders followed immediately.
Their first stop was the Martian Embassy, a squat red-and-bronze structure nestled among the gleaming towers of the international district. There they received identification badges, toxin-detection kits, and portable hydroponic analysis equipment capable of identifying even exotic biological compounds.
The trail soon led them into the Chinese sector of the Moon.
Local authorities insisted on assigning an escort.
That escort arrived precisely on schedule.
Lee Jug was a tall, lean security officer with calm eyes and the patient expression of a man accustomed to bureaucracy. Two surveillance drones floated discreetly behind him, reminding everyone that discretion was a relative concept.
As they left the administrative building and entered a transparent transit corridor overlooking the grey lunar plains, Lee broke the silence.
"I understand Martian authorities are concerned," he said. "But I assure you, nobody here wishes to poison your tea."
Denis chuckled.
"That's exactly what a poisoner would say."
Lee laughed unexpectedly.
"Fair point."
Jürgen glanced through the corridor's glass wall at the endless dust fields stretching toward the horizon.
"Whoever did this knew what they were doing," he said. "The toxins survived harvesting, packaging, transportation, and routine inspections. That takes planning."
Lee nodded slowly.
"Which means we may have the same enemy."
Denis raised an eyebrow.
"You think it's someone inside the base?"
"I think," Lee replied carefully, "that if an outsider could infiltrate one of our most secure agricultural facilities, then we all have a much bigger problem than poisoned tea."
For a moment the three men walked in silence.
Beyond the glass, Earth hung in the black sky like a blue lantern.
Jürgen studied Lee's expression. The security officer was undoubtedly reporting every movement they made. That much was obvious.
Yet there was no hostility in him.
Only concern.
And perhaps the faintest hint of fear.
The investigation had barely begun, but already one thing was becoming clear.
Someone had turned a simple cargo of tea into the opening move of a far larger game.
Back at their temporary office, Jürgen began examining the lunar registry of licensed sorcerers.
The Moon's surveillance systems were notoriously thorough. Every shipment was tracked from cultivation to launch. Every worker passed through multiple checkpoints. Every crate was scanned, weighed, and sealed.
The more Jürgen studied the security procedures, the less he believed a conventional saboteur could have succeeded.
"If the poison entered the cargo before packaging, someone would have noticed," he said.
Lee Jug nodded.
"Our inspections are relentless."
"Then it happened afterward."
Jürgen leaned back in his chair and activated a secondary analysis program. Thousands of records streamed across his display as the embassy's artificial intelligence compared shipping schedules, security logs, magical registrations, and transportation permits.
"Magic," he concluded. "It's the only gap in the system."
The AI immediately began compiling a list of every registered sorcerer present on the Moon during the days surrounding the shipment's departure.
Across the room, Denis was conducting a different search.
While Jürgen focused on opportunity, Denis looked for motive.
Most of the names that appeared on the list were unremarkable. Academic researchers. Licensed ritual specialists. Lunar engineers who used minor enchantments in industrial maintenance.
Then one file made him stop scrolling.
Denis frowned.
He opened the record.
Read it once.
Then a second time.
Something clicked.
"Jürgen," he said quietly. "I think I found our first real suspect."
Jürgen crossed the room.
The file projected itself above the desk.
The name was familiar.
Pi Graham.
The story had become something of a legend on Earth.
Decades earlier, Pi Graham had been a respected Pack Master. Strangely, he had never been a werewolf himself. His authority came from wisdom, diplomacy, and considerable magical talent. Under his guidance, his followers prospered.
Then Mars opened its gates.
One by one, entire packs departed Earth in search of a new future beneath the red sky.
Eventually, Pi found himself alone.
The years took their toll.
His power remained vast, but his body grew frail.
When death finally came, he refused to accept it.
Instead, he turned to forbidden magic.
The resurrection succeeded.
At least partially.
According to the records of the Earth Sorcerers Order, Pi returned as a lich.
The immortality he sought came at a terrible cost.
Witnesses reported profound changes in his personality. Compassion faded. Empathy withered. Old friendships crumbled. Whatever had crossed back from death wore Pi Graham's memories, but not all of his humanity.
The sorcerous community eventually exiled him.
The Moon, distant and politically convenient, became his place of banishment.
There he gathered followers and founded a small but vocal anti-werewolf cult.
The timing was difficult to ignore.
While Martian werewolves flourished, Pi Graham watched from exile.
While their communities grew stronger, his own influence diminished.
And now someone had attempted to poison the tea that united them.
The security file contained several recent images.
One of them filled the screen.
For a moment nobody spoke.
The figure standing beneath the lights of a lunar transit station resembled a skeleton carved from pale crystal. Blue-white magical fire burned within its empty eye sockets. Ancient runes drifted slowly around its robes like captive stars.
The sight was unsettling.
Not because the creature looked dead.
But because it looked intelligent.
Very intelligent.
Jürgen folded his arms.
"How exactly do we arrest a lich?"
Denis kept staring at the image.
"A powerful undead sorcerer," he murmured. "That's a complicated suspect."
"Complicated?"
Jürgen pointed at the projection.
"That thing has probably forgotten more magic than most people ever learn."
Denis nodded slowly.
"We'll need bigger guns for a start."
"And a serious plan," Jürgen added. "Pi already hates werewolves like us."
For the first time since the investigation began, the poisoned tea seemed like the least dangerous thing in the case.
Far beneath the lunar surface, Pi Graham received the news.
The poisoning had failed.
The tea had been intercepted.
Mars was safe.
For several long seconds, the ancient lich stood motionless.
Then the fury came.
It was not the anger of a living man. It was something colder and older, fed by decades of resentment and immortal disappointment.
Blue fire erupted from his eye sockets.
The cavern trembled.
His followers barely had time to react.
A gesture.
A word.
A burst of terrible magic.
When the rage finally subsided, silence returned to the underground sanctuary.
Pi stood alone.
Ash drifted slowly through the air like grey snow.
The cultists who had worshipped him were gone.
Only then did he understand what he had done.
The magical flames within his skull dimmed.
He looked around at the ashes surrounding him.
His followers.
His last companions.
His final connection to the world.
Gone.
A sound escaped him.
Half scream.
Half sob.
The ancient lich struck the stone floor with a skeletal fist.
The impact echoed through the chamber.
"What have I become?"
The question vanished into the darkness unanswered.
For a long time, Pi remained motionless.
Then he made a decision.
If revenge had failed...
If immortality had failed...
Then there remained only one thing to destroy.
His soul.
At nearly the same moment, alerts flashed across the Moon Security Network.
The primary suspect had emerged from the underground settlements.
Tracking systems followed his movements across the barren landscape.
Destination: an abandoned mining complex.
The information reached Jürgen and Denis immediately.
Moon Security suspected Pi might be seeking a hiding place, an escape route, or perhaps a final weapon.
Whatever his intention, the investigators could not afford to let him disappear.
The hunt was on.
As they reached the embassy hangar, Lee Jug came running toward them carrying a data key.
Without slowing down, he tossed it to Jürgen.
"Take my buggy."
Jürgen caught it.
Outside sat a compact lunar vehicle painted a cheerful shade of blue.
It looked entirely too friendly for a manhunt.
Lee pointed toward it.
"It's the fastest lunar car on the Moon."
A rare grin crossed his face.
"Go catch that toxic bastard for me."
"We intend to," said Jürgen.
Moments later, the buggy shot across the grey wilderness.
The journey was long.
The terrain was treacherous.
Crater rims rose like frozen waves beneath the black sky.
Yet the navigation system guided them flawlessly between hazards.
Above them hung Earth, brilliant and distant.
Ahead of them waited Pi Graham.
The lich reached the abandoned mine hours before his pursuers.
An ancient freight elevator carried him into the depths.
Down.
Farther down.
Toward the deepest chambers ever excavated by human hands.
He paid no attention to secrecy.
When he stepped from the elevator, he left it waiting at the bottom.
He no longer cared who followed.
Later, Jürgen and Denis descended after him.
Inside the rattling elevator cage, both investigators checked their weapons.
The ammunition had been specially prepared.
Holy lead.
At least, that was the theory.
Neither of them had ever attempted to arrest a lich before.
The practical literature on the subject was remarkably scarce.
"Still at the bottom," Denis observed while studying the scanner.
"Then that's where we're going," said Jürgen.
The elevator continued downward.
Deep below, Pi felt their arrival before he heard it.
He raised a hand and whispered an ancient spell.
A soft sphere of light emerged from his palm.
The enchantment did not read thoughts.
It merely revealed intentions.
Purpose.
Direction.
Hostility.
Two luminous shapes detached themselves from the approaching investigators and drifted through the darkness.
Pi received them moments later.
Martian werewolves.
Investigators.
Armed.
Determined.
Yet something unexpected accompanied those impressions.
Duty.
Concern.
A desire to bring him back alive.
The realization settled heavily upon him.
Nearby rested a small glass jar.
Within it glimmered the fragment of soul that had sustained his undeath for decades.
The soul's presence had always amplified his darkest emotions.
His bitterness.
His jealousy.
His hatred.
Now, standing beside it, Pi felt those feelings fading.
He no longer wanted revenge.
He no longer wanted Martian blood.
He simply wanted peace.
And for the first time in many years, the prospect of dying no longer frightened him.
What frightened him was dying alone.
The thought sent an unfamiliar shiver through his ancient bones.
The elevator doors opened.
Jürgen and Denis stepped out with weapons raised.
Their lights swept across the cavern.
Finally they found him.
The legendary lich stood waiting beside a stone platform.
Denis spoke first.
"Pi Graham, under Martian authority, you are hereby placed under arrest for attempted mass poisoning and numerous violations of magical law."
Jürgen produced a set of reinforced restraints.
"We are authorized to use force if you resist."
Pi tilted his skull slightly.
To their surprise, he seemed amused.
"What a delightful surprise," he said. "Dear Martian werewolves."
His skeletal fingers closed around the glass jar.
Denis tightened his grip on his weapon.
"Will you come with us peacefully?"
Pi gazed at the glowing fragment trapped within the vessel.
For a moment, sadness flickered within the blue flames of his eyes.
"I'm afraid," he said softly, "I have other plans."
Before either investigator could react, he opened the jar.
The soul fragment rose into the air like a wandering star.
Then Pi consumed it.
Light flooded the cavern.
Not violent.
Not destructive.
Gentle.
The blue fire inside the lich's skull flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then began to fade.
The runes surrounding him vanished.
The ancient magic binding bone to will slowly unraveled.
Pi looked at the two investigators.
For the first time in decades, his voice sounded almost human.
"Sorry for everything I did as a lich."
A faint chuckle escaped him.
"Especially the poison. That was a terrible idea."
The last traces of magical fire disappeared.
"But it's all right now."
He looked upward, toward worlds he could no longer see.
"Goodbye."
The skeleton collapsed.
No spell exploded.
No final curse was spoken.
The bones simply fell apart and settled quietly upon the stone floor.
The silence that followed felt strangely peaceful.
After several moments, Jürgen knelt beside the remains.
He lifted one of the bones and examined it carefully.
"He's really dead."
Denis lowered his weapon.
"How exactly do we write this report?"
Jürgen considered the question.
Then he laughed.
A tired laugh.
"The official version?"
"Yes."
"He died of old age."
Denis nodded.
"Honestly, that's probably easier."
"The magical version is far too strange."
They began gathering the remains.
"Take all of them," Denis said.
"We don't want anyone deciding to resurrect him again."
Jürgen placed another bone into a storage container.
"And we can't return empty-handed."
"True."
Together they collected the last traces of the man who had once been Pi Graham.
Thus ended the life of the Great Lich Pi Graham.
Not in battle.
Not in conquest.
Not beneath the banners of enemies.
His final witnesses were two Martian werewolves who arrived expecting a monster and found instead an old soul exhausted by its own immortality.
The last words he left behind were neither threats nor curses.
They were words of regret.
Words of hard-earned wisdom.
A final warning from one who had crossed the boundary of death and returned:
Some doors are meant to remain closed.
Chapter 3 - Bad blood
The first disappearance had been dismissed as a drunken wanderer.
The second had raised eyebrows.
By the fifth missing werewolf, Inspector Emily had started opening case files.
By the twelfth, Mars had a problem.
The victims all belonged to werewolf communities scattered across the red planet's frontier settlements. They vanished days before the rare Phobos-Deimos alignment, a celestial event that strengthened a werewolf's regenerative abilities. To most people it was little more than an astronomical curiosity.
To someone with money on their mind, it was a harvest season.
Jürgen stared at the list of names projected above the desk in his apartment.
"Twelve missing," he muttered.
His partner Denis leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"And every one of them disappears before the alignment."
Jürgen nodded grimly.
"Someone knows exactly what they're doing."
A face appeared on the display.
Josepe.
The photograph was old, taken during the Earth Exodus nearly thirty years ago. The man looked younger then, standing beside a group of weary refugees beneath a transport shuttle.
Denis noticed the change in Jürgen's expression.
"You know him?"
Jürgen remained silent for several seconds.
"He ran with my pack back on Earth."
"Friend?"
"No." Jürgen's eyes hardened. "Never trusted him."
That was enough for Denis.
"Then let's pay him a visit."
The trail led them across hundreds of kilometers of Martian wilderness.
The desert stretched endlessly beneath a copper-colored sky. Dust storms wandered across the horizon like ghosts.
Josepe traveled carefully, changing vehicles, using back routes and abandoned mining roads. But he wasn't careful enough.
For three days the detectives followed him.
On the fourth day, he entered Oasis.
The city rose from the desert like a metallic mirage.
Unlike the corporate settlements controlled by Martian authorities, Oasis belonged to nobody except itself. Independent merchants, smugglers, fortune hunters, and wealthy travelers passed through its sprawling spaceport every day.
A perfect place to disappear.
Or conduct illegal business.
Denis parked their rented crawler on a ridge overlooking the city.
"I've got a bad feeling about this place."
Jürgen snorted.
"That makes two of us."
The warehouse sat near the far end of the private spaceport.
Official records claimed it stored industrial equipment.
The smell told a different story.
Blood.
Even before entering, Jürgen could smell it.
The scent seeped through the metal walls.
Fresh blood.
Old blood.
Too much blood.
The detectives slipped inside through a maintenance hatch.
What they found made Denis stop cold.
Rows of cages stretched across the enormous building.
Inside them were werewolves.
Men and women.
Young and old.
Their wrists and ankles were secured by heavy chains reinforced with silver alloy.
Machines surrounded the prisoners.
Complex pumps and filtration systems extracted blood before feeding it into large boiling chambers.
Beyond them stood rows of drying units.
The blood was being processed into a dark crimson powder.
Easier to transport.
Easier to sell.
One captive looked up as the detectives approached.
His face was pale.
"They keep taking it," he whispered.
"How often?" Denis asked.
"Every day."
Jürgen clenched his fists.
The prisoner laughed bitterly.
"The funny thing is they need us alive."
"Why?"
The captive pointed toward the machinery.
"Our blood heals too fast. We make more."
Denis felt his stomach tighten.
Human cattle.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Back in the shadows of the warehouse, Denis activated his communicator.
The signal bounced through several satellites before reaching orbit.
Inspector Emily's face appeared.
"You two look terrible."
"We found them," Denis said.
Emily's expression became serious.
"Location?"
Denis transmitted the coordinates.
"And there's more. They're shipping processed blood off-world."
"Destination?"
"Earth."
Emily swore.
"Can you prove it?"
Jürgen pointed the communicator toward stacks of cargo containers already marked for launch.
Emily's eyes narrowed.
"That's enough."
"What are you planning?" Denis asked.
A dangerous smile appeared on her face.
"I'm planning an arrest."
The launch took place shortly after sunset.
A heavy cargo rocket thundered into the sky carrying tons of powdered werewolf blood.
Most of Josepe's guards accompanied the shipment.
The moment the rocket disappeared into the darkness above Mars, Emily's trap sprang shut.
Martian patrol ships intercepted the freighter before it could leave local jurisdiction.
The smugglers never saw them coming.
Meanwhile, back on the surface, the warehouse had become nearly undefended.
Denis grinned.
"Looks like the inspector got her wish."
Jürgen smashed a control panel with one punch.
Cage doors began unlocking across the building.
The captives poured out.
Some staggered.
Others limped.
A few immediately started helping weaker prisoners.
Within minutes they had commandeered a military transport truck.
One of the rescued werewolves climbed into the driver's seat.
"What about you two?"
Denis glanced toward the warehouse.
"We've still got unfinished business."
The driver understood.
Without another word, the truck roared away into the Martian night carrying the survivors to safety.
Josepe was waiting.
He stood alone beside the processing machines.
The warehouse seemed strangely quiet now.
Almost peaceful.
"Always knew you'd find me," he said.
Jürgen stepped forward.
"You sold your own people."
Josepe shrugged.
"They weren't my people anymore."
"They trusted you."
"They were profitable."
The answer hit harder than a punch.
Jürgen's eyes flashed gold.
"So that's all this was?"
Josepe smiled.
"Business."
The transformation began instantly.
Bones cracked.
Muscles expanded.
Fur erupted across skin.
Two massive wolves emerged where men had stood moments before.
The fight exploded across the warehouse.
Steel bent.
Machines shattered.
The floor shook beneath their impacts.
Josepe fought savagely, driven by desperation.
Jürgen fought with something colder.
Rage.
Years of it.
The battle ended when Jürgen slammed his opponent through a processing tank.
Metal crumpled.
Josepe collapsed beneath the wreckage.
Bleeding.
Broken.
Defeated.
Slowly, Jürgen returned to human form.
"It's over."
He looked toward Denis.
"Handcuffs."
Denis reached for them.
Then he saw movement.
Josepe's eyes snapped open.
The fallen werewolf lunged.
Straight toward Jürgen's exposed back.
Everything happened in a fraction of a second.
Denis drew his revolver.
A single silver round fired.
The shot echoed through the warehouse.
Josepe froze.
His expression shifted from surprise to disbelief.
Then he collapsed.
This time he didn't move.
Silence returned.
Jürgen stared at the body.
After a long moment he looked at Denis.
"You saved my life."
Denis holstered the revolver.
"Partners do that."
Outside, the distant lights of Oasis glittered beneath the Martian stars while another criminal empire came to an end.
The bells of Saint Michael's Church rang three times through the underground district of Veruka.
The sound echoed strangely beneath the Martian rock ceiling.
Private investigator Denis Guiligan hated churches.
Not for religious reasons.
He simply disliked places where dead bodies appeared before breakfast.
The police barriers were already up when he and his partner arrived.
A pair of officers recognized the two werewolves and stepped aside.
Inside the church, candles flickered beneath electric lamps designed to imitate sunlight. The artificial glow painted long shadows across the pews.
Inspector Emily McCormick stood near a confession booth.
Her expression was unreadable.
"You're not on this case," she said.
"We know," Denis replied. "We're here to identify the client."
Emily's eyes narrowed.
"Anita Powell?"
Denis nodded.
The inspector looked away.
That tiny reaction told him everything.
Brian Powell's widow had not hired them because she distrusted the police.
She distrusted Emily McCormick specifically.
The body remained seated inside the confession booth.
Brian Powell, lawmaker, reformist politician and one of Veruka's most recognizable faces.
A neat hole sat in the center of his forehead.
No signs of regeneration.
Permanent death.
Even werewolves feared that phrase.
"Execution style," Jürgen observed.
Emily crossed her arms.
"Professional."
"Any witnesses?"
"None."
"Camera footage?"
"We're reviewing it."
For a moment Emily stared at the corpse.
The look lasted barely a second.
Yet Denis noticed.
The inspector looked less like a police officer and more like a widow.
Interesting, he thought.
Their client welcomed them into a luxurious apartment overlooking Veruka's central cavern.
Anita Powell wore black despite the fact that her husband had died only hours earlier.
No tears.
No trembling voice.
Only determination.
"My husband had enemies," she said.
She handed Jürgen a data slate.
A long list appeared.
Corporate executives.
Political rivals.
Lobbyists.
A labor union leader.
Several names were already highlighted.
"Start with these."
Denis whistled softly.
"That's enough suspects for three murders."
Anita leaned forward.
"Find who killed Brian."
Her eyes hardened.
"And don't trust Inspector McCormick."
Neither detective replied.
But both understood.
Rumors of the affair had reached nearly everyone in Veruka.
The investigation split naturally.
Denis followed the political trail.
Jürgen followed the money.
Two days later Denis found something useful.
A church security camera had captured a known contract killer entering the neighborhood shortly before the murder.
The image was grainy.
The face partially concealed.
But facial recognition eventually produced a match.
A hitman connected to the criminal underworld.
More importantly, financial records connected him indirectly to Meyer Tom.
The billionaire owner of Veruka's largest artificial meat corporation.
The kind of man who could purchase governments if governments were available for sale.
Denis immediately contacted Jürgen.
"Looks like your billionaire just became interesting."
Jürgen had already become interested in someone else.
Skalène.
Executive assistant to Meyer Tom.
She was clever enough to avoid police scrutiny and nervous enough to attract his attention.
For three days he followed her through Veruka.
Business meetings.
Restaurants.
Corporate offices.
Eventually she broke.
Jürgen cornered her outside a transit station.
"You're being watched."
Her face went pale.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The hitman."
Silence.
"The church."
More silence.
"The politician."
At that point she nearly collapsed.
Hours later she sat in Jürgen's office.
A recorder rested on the desk.
The assistant spoke quietly.
Between tears and fear she revealed everything she knew.
Meyer Tom had hired a killer.
She had arranged meetings.
Transferred funds.
Created false identities.
She never expected Brian Powell to actually die.
The confession lasted nearly forty minutes.
Enough to destroy careers.
Enough to start an arrest.
Not enough to convict a billionaire.
Jürgen knew it.
Skalène knew it.
Perhaps that was why both looked relieved when the recording finally ended.
The shot came through the window.
One deafening crack.
A spray of glass.
Skalène fell backward.
Dead before she touched the floor.
Jürgen rushed outside.
The sniper was gone.
Only distant traffic remained.
Mars had swallowed another ghost.
Inspector McCormick arrived within minutes.
Too quickly, Denis thought.
She listened to Jürgen's account without interruption.
Then she requested a copy of the testimony.
Jürgen handed it over.
Emily studied the recording device for several seconds.
Then slipped it into an evidence bag.
Her expression revealed nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The following morning Veruka woke to explosive news.
Police had obtained a warrant.
Meyer Tom's penthouse had been searched.
Even more surprising, officers had discovered the sniper rifle inside the billionaire's private safe.
The media erupted.
Corporate stock crashed.
Political allies vanished overnight.
By evening Meyer Tom was under arrest.
By midnight everyone was celebrating.
Everyone except two werewolves.
Denis stared at the news broadcast.
"You believe it?"
"No."
Jürgen sipped coffee.
"You?"
"No."
The office remained quiet.
Outside, Veruka's endless artificial daylight illuminated the streets.
"Skalène's testimony wasn't enough," Denis finally said.
"No."
"The rifle appears exactly when McCormick needs it."
"Yes."
"You think she planted it?"
Jürgen looked toward the city.
"I think Brian Powell mattered to her."
Denis nodded.
Neither detective mentioned the darker possibility.
That Emily had arranged the witness's death.
That she had transformed suspicion into certainty.
That she had crossed a line no police officer should cross.
There was no proof.
Only instinct.
And instinct wasn't admissible in court.
Weeks later the case officially closed.
Meyer Tom would spend the remainder of his life fighting charges he would probably lose.
Veruka praised Inspector Emily McCormick as a hero.
The newspapers called her relentless.
Dedicated.
Brilliant.
None of them knew what the werewolves suspected.
Or perhaps they simply preferred not to know.
Some truths were uncomfortable.
Others were expensive.
Rain machines watered the memorial gardens above Brian Powell's grave.
Emily McCormick arrived alone.
No reporters.
No police.
No witnesses.
She placed fresh flowers beside the stone.
For several minutes she remained silent.
The underground sky projected by the dome overhead shimmered with artificial stars.
Finally she touched the cold granite.
"I got him."
Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
The inspector stood there a little longer.
Then she walked away.
The flowers remained.
Red as blood.
And somewhere in Veruka, two werewolves wondered whether they had solved a murder...
...or simply witnessed what love becomes when justice moves too slowly.
