There's No Place Like Mars: Chapter 7

Three weeks previously:

The room oozed eminence and all that entails. There was loads of plush leather, books from floor to ceiling on four walls, and a fire place dominating one wall with busts of famous scientists lined up on the mantle. An elderly man wearing a three piece tweed suit appeared out of thin air and sat down in an over-stuffed armchair while seeming to address someone who was not present in the room.

“Yes?” said the old man who had just appeared. “I don't know. Something big, he says.”

There was a pause, while the man glanced around the library.

He continued, “Look, it won't take long. Just let the interns take care of it. They're not so stupid that they can foil that experiment, trust me.”

Another, somewhat—but not much—younger man appeared abruptly. And glanced around, saying, “Ahh, Dr. Vorschatz, a pleasure.”

Dr. Vorschatz said, again to someone not present, “Okay, the others are showing up. Bring me a brandy and leave me.” To the new arrival, he said, “Dr. Benford, I trust you know what this is all about?”

“Not a clue. But if it's anything like the last time Polus invited us here, I'm sure we'll all have a good laugh.”

“I'm not in a laughing mood,” said Dr. Vorschatz, reaching up into the air, nodding as a brandy snifter appeared in his hand.

Dr Benford sat on one of the sofas and propped his legs up on the coffee table.

The awkward silence had no chance to settle as a number of other scientists, theologians, and philosophers all appeared in rapid succession, taking in their surroundings and seating themselves about the room according to an unspoken hierarchy. More distinction allowed more plush. Age and discipline also seemed to be factors. Of course, when you're only present as a hologram, it was all about appearance.

The room was buzzing with conversation and after a matter moments as the collection the most senior thinkers in known human society, from all over the solar system, exchanged speculations about why Dr. Maron Polus had requested their presence. Plenty were annoyed about it. They said they wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for the late Dr. Byron Polus. Apparently, being the son of the greatest scientist of the 21st century had its advantages.

Suddenly, a set of double doors swung open and a young man strode in with all the arrogant swagger of the gentleman scientist riding his father's Nobel winnings. He had black, wavy hair combed back from a prominent forehead. Dark, blazing eyes, intelligent, but conceited. Finally, Maron Polus wore a black suit and tie with a rich, dark red shirt. He carried a briefcase, which he set down on a desk at one end of the room. Eighteen pairs of holographic eyes watched him as he unlatched the briefcase and pulled out a data disc.

Finally, he turned and addressed his captive audience, and act that an untrained observer might mistake as somberly executed, though everyone present knew that he relished the opportunity to have this league of luminaries here in front of him. Completely at his whim. Like so many times before.

It helped that Maron Polus was a brilliant scientist in his own right. But it didn't help that he was completley insufferable. This was the last time they were likely to indulge the upstart, at least in so informal a setting. But it was also the last time he needed them to. Today would be a day of days.

“Greetings fellow men of the mind,” he began.

The merely eyed him critically, a tactic that only served to fuel his rapture.

“I have in my hand a disc that contains the detailed data resulting from a lengthy experiment that I only completed last week, and which I have only finished analyzing today. I am so pleased you could all join me on such short notice.”

A few sparse grumbles were all he was met with.

“My fellow scientists and philosophers and men of divinity, I have brought you here today to show you what will possibly be the most important discovery of the century, my father's work notwithstanding.”

The reminder of who his father was brought some grudging goodwill out of his audience.

“It was scarcely a few decades ago that my father found a way to make Bose-Einstein condensates large enough to allow teleportation of raw materials a easy and cost-effective. The Polus Method. It was this research that allowed us to mine more efficiently, build glorious cities on Mars and Ganymede, and allow for things like food replication. The ability to build nearly anything from degenerate matter is the cornerstone upon which modern technology rests. And research into further implications and mechanisms behind the phenomenon is the widest avenue of modern physics and chemistry today.”

The collection of luminaries stared at him, betraying only the most tactful amount of their annoyance at his insistence on stating the very, very obvious.

“But there's one thing that we've never been able to do. One thing that math and ethics and philosophy refuses to make a reality. We could, theoretically, use the Bose-Einstein condensate to 'teleport' a human being. However, the systematic obliteration and reconstruction of a human body skates too fine, raises too many questions, and makes it impossible to be a practical application of the technology. But what if I said I had discovered a phenomenon and a set of equations that might just make practical human teleportation the smallest achievement of the next six months.”

That got their complete and undivided attention.

There's No Place Like Mars: Chapter 6

“Where is Jessie?” said Chisolm. He paced back and forth in front of his desk. All he wanted out of life was his little black market operation, a few fringe benefits, a loyal crew, and his retirement fund. It might even be nice to fall in love someday.

What he had was a crate full of assault rifles, no idea what to do with it, and an entire brigade threatening to invade his city. Everyone in the world that he trusted now sat in his office, watching him pace. Everyone except Jessie.

Bikram and Voronoi stared at him over glasses of gin. There was no new news. The council hadn't issued more than the most cursory statements, and no one except Jessie had any sufficiently useful connections in the council offices.

Chisolm said, “What was it your professor friend said, Bikram?”

“He said it wasn't his department, but that there was a whole lot of buzz around the College of Natural Science. Everyone associated with the CNS has been cloistering themselves in their offices. They're not telling anyone anything. Loads of classes have been cancelled. Rumors are flying. Something big is happening, and I bet it's all connected. Even grad students have been shut out of the network.”

Chisolm frowned. “Those pompous eggheads are up to something. I tell you what I'm going to do if I run into one of those crackpot brain jockeys--”

Just then, the door slammed open and a familiar intake of breath swept around the room as Jessie Niven stomped into the room, five and a half feet of legs and curves wrapped in a grease-stained jumpsuit. She was hell on two legs and every man wanted her for extracurricular activities. Her sharp, brown eyes calculated every detail of the room in seconds. “Hell of a day,” she said.

Chisolm was the only one immune to her obvious charms. “Talk to me, woman,” he said.

“The council is giving them everything they want. They're not even lifting a finger to stop it. They're calling off the riot cops and they're totally toeing the line for these assholes.”“They have no right to be here...” said Chisolm. “But I suppose that's the smart move on their part. Hell, maybe I'd even do the same thing. Fortunately for us, we're in a position to remain clandestine. What do these jacked up space monkeys want, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

Chisolm put a hand to his forehead and began pacing. Everyone was silent. “Okay, they haven't asked for anything yet. They're letting us wait. Sweat it out. Whoever their commander is knows what he's doing.”

The silence continued. “Maybe,” Bikram ventured, “they actually have a good reason.”

Paper coffee cups and pencils were all hurled at Bikram in unison along with words of protest.

But Chisolm had gone to another place. “Did you find anything out about Agathadaemon, Jesse?”

“Well, there wasn't much. Agathadaemon is a minor Greek god. He was a god of good fortune and he was a snake. Apparently, they thought snakes were, like, reincarnations of ancestors and were good luck. That's about all I could find.”

Chisolm took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and then exhaled, making a “Puh...” sound. “Square one.”

There's No Place Like Mars: Chapter 5

Back at his office, Chisolm pulled one of his desk drawers out, and dumped out its contents, scattering pens and papers and other objects all over the floor. He lifted the false bottom out of the drawer, pulled out out his revolver and a box of cartridges, and set them on the desk. Carefully he loaded the six chambers, spun the cylinder, and slammed it into place before slipping the gun into the pocket of his overcoat and the box of bullets into another.

There was a knock. “Come in!” he shouted irritably.

Bikram poked his head in, and the rest of his bird-like body followed. He closed the door and said, “Okay, I think we found the bullets.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. There was a shipment of tungsten rods sent to a machining factory south of here. I got in touch with a contact there, and he said that they'd all been tooled into balls the same diameter as the caliber of those railguns.”

“Shit, who's the customer.”

“Ah..well...it's Olympus Labs.”

Chisolm sat back in his chair, said, “Huh,” and studied the lines on Bikram's face. “Well, that makes things interesting. Did you know, Bikram, that we are being invaded?”

“Yeah, I don't know much about it. None of my contacts do either. There was no indication that any of this shit was going to happen. I wonder if their target is Olympus Labs.”

“I wonder if Olympus Labs knew they were coming. What sort of contacts do you have at Spartan University?”

“Not many. A couple of their loading workers, and...hell, I know a professor there in the I.T. Department.”

Chisolm chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip for a moment, before saying, “Yeah, call them. See what you can find out. Tell Jessie to talk to her people in the P.D. and I'll be here for at least the next hour.”

An hour went by. Voronoi never called. Chisolm left his office, asked some of the other loading bay workers if they'd seen either Bikram or Jessie. He was answered by puzzled shrugs. Damn, he thought. What did a guy have to do to find out what the hell was going on in this town?

He checked the feeds as he walked and apparently, the military force had occupied the smelting factory and its surrounding dome community, but had made no further move. The Eden council had issued a statement that they were in talks with a liason from the Earthling army and assured the public that as soon as further information was available, they'd stick it right up their own asses—paraphrased, of course. Chisolm shook his head and folded up his PDA, slipping it into his satchel.

He fingered the pistol in his pocket warily, and headed off toward Voronoi's office. The fence ran a pressure suit repair shop as a front for his black market operation. Everyone on Mars was required by law to own one, and they periodically needed servicing. It was a convenient way to launder the money that they made selling contraband to the locals. It was all so much simpler when all they had to move was furniture and booze.

Two blocks from Voronoi's office, a woman stepped out of a doorway, walked up to him, took his hand, and pressed a piece of paper into it and said, “Agathadaemon,” and walked away.

Stunned, Chisolm looked down at the piece of paper for a moment before turning around and shouting, “Hey!” But the woman was nowhere to be seen.

He spun around in the street, feeling foolish and annoyed and frustrated. A few frightened-looking pedestrians sized him up. He sneered at them and they hurried on their way. Returning his attention once again to the piece of paper, he unfolded it and was met with something even more perplexing. A series of numbers. It appeared to be two sets of numbers with no signification as to what they might mean. And then there was that word. The woman had said, “Agathadaemon.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Pocketing the note, he continued his journey, making his way to Voronoi's store. There was a grizzled old man in there working on what looked like an air pressure regulator. He looked up when Chisolm entered. His eyes, magnified by a pair of goggles, looked like a pair of fish swimming back and forth as they focused in on Chisolm.

“Is Voronoi here?” he asked, politely.

“Just went out,” came the old man's raspy voice.

Chisolm sighed, said, “Did he leave a message for me? Horton Chisolm?”

The man screwed up his face in thought. Finally, he shook his head. “No, but he left in an awful quick hurry.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“Nope.”

“Ah...thanks,” said Chisolm, and he left, feeling somewhat relieved to be out of the man's presence.

He cursed under his breath as pulled out his phone and keyed in Voronoi's number. “You've reached Alistair Voronoi. Leave a friendly message.”

“Fuck you Voronoi! I'll eat your liver for breakfast you slimy grease bag. Call me back.”

Hanging up, he called keyed in Bikram, left an equally annoyed message, and then decided to try Jessie. Her voice came immediately, “Chisolm! Where have you been?”

“What?”

“We're being invaded!”

“I know that, Jessie. Did you talk to your people in the police department?”

“Yeah, they don't know anything. They're suiting up for a riot though, and they're heading to the east gate, just in case. They've got the guns out and everything. They've also got squads outside of Eden Tower. They're also doing regular patrols in the big trucks. You might see one, they're heading toward the bay.”

“Shit...Did you tell them anything about that shipment?”

“Nope, I didn't even bother. Bikram said that you were pretty sure it had something to do with Olympus Labs.”

“Yeah...”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Does the word 'Agathadaemon' mean anything to you?” he asked.

“God that rings a bell, boss,” she said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, but I can't put a finger on it.”

“Well put your fucking finger on it and meet me at the office. If you can find Bikram, tell him to call me. Meet me back at the office as soon as you can.”

“You got a plan?”

“No, but I will. There's gotta be some way we can come out on top of this whole mess.”

There's No Place Like Mars: Chapter 4

Some goods simply couldn't be distributed evenly. Things like liquor, certain electronics, vehicles, and luxury foodstuffs. There simply weren't enough of these things for everyone to get one, so they had to be distributed based on need and desire—based on who could afford them. Every now and again, there was a special order by some rich fucker for some art piece or expensive bit of mahogany furniture. It was Horton Chisolm's duty to make sure it got to the right people. Every now and again, however, something came through that shouldn't have, at least by the letter of the law. Some things were contraband, like liquor. These had to be distributed properly and through the right channels. When it came to things like this, portions of contraband orders were skimmed off the top. Sort of a tax, so that Chisolm and his boys would be more inclined to look the other way. Most of it was harmless. Most of it.

A lot of these products came through with no definite addressee. These were usually contraband, and could be sold on the little black market that Chisolm and his friends had set up. People like Alistair Voronoi and Bikram would find people willing to pay for it, and they made a healthy profit, so that they could keep their own share of those luxury goods that came through. It was a nice deal for people like Chisolm, and he really hated to see it change. There were very few firearms on Mars. Chisolm kept one small snub-nosed revolver in his desk, and the municipal police department kept a small arsenal of riot gear locked up but as a rule didn't carry personal sidearms.

The fact that a shipment of high-powered railguns had come through his airlock in his loading dock in his city was unsettling. It spoke of change.

If that was how it was going to be, Chisolm would eat his own intestines before he let himself be hoodwinked. The other half of that arsenal was staying in his possession until such time as the rest of them could be located and destroyed. And should they prove impossible to destroy, Chisolm was going to make sure he came out on top of any sort of new Martian order.

The eight crates of rifles that they'd confiscated would be kept safe. Only Bikram and Chisolm would know where they were stashed. And only two other people thus far knew they existed. As far as the original buyer was concerned, they had disappeared. Hopefully, this would expose the rat-gut tosspots. Only time would tell.

These thoughts and more tumbled around in Chisolm's brain as he made his way through the streets of Eden. The city was impressive, enveloped, as it was, by the eye-bending expanse of dome, with its soccer-ball patterned frame. Very little that wasn't strictly utilitarian was visible. Most buildings were low, round, and unadorned. The downtown district, in the center of the dome was dominated by the taller structures, including a single skyscraper that housed the council chambers, the university campus, a couple of the bigger corporate offices, and the internet and cellular tower. During the lunch hour, the streets were clogged with bicycles and the odd electric car as Chisolm made his way downtown.

His cellphone went off and he answered, “Bikram? What have you got for me?”

Bikram's voice said, “Well, we looked at the manifest and scanned through the security footage. We found the truck that the other nine crates were loaded into.”

“And?”

“The truck belongs to Spee-D Delivery. So we're going to have to go through them to find out who they were delivered to.”

Chisolm sighed, said, “Okay, did they ask about the missing eight crates?”

“Yeah, but Jessie doesn't think the driver knew what was in them. She says he just asked about the others and Jessie said they didn't have them, so he took off. Didn't make a stink or anything. Sounds to me like they're really trying to keep this thing under wraps.”

“Yeah...say listen, I want you to take a look through the manifests of the last few weeks and see if you can find anything that might have contained ammunition for these things. It wouldn't look like firearm ammunition. These things don't use powder, so it'll either be balls or bullets with no cartridges. Possibly made of tungsten or some other heavy metal.”

“Sure thing, boss.” There was a pause, and then, “You don't think they might be manufacturing ammuntion planetside, do you?”

“The thought occurred to me. Call me when you find anything.”

“I'm on it,” said Bikram.

Hanging up, Chisolm found himself in front of a small Chinese restaurant and stepped inside. He ordered some dumplings and noodles, got his order number, and sat down to surf the newsgroups on his PDA. The thing no one counts on is a well-informed and well-meaning media, but Mars had some of the most earnest reporters in the solar system.

Three things happened all at once. His number was called by the asian woman behind the counter. His cellphone started to ring, the ID showing Alistair Voronoi, and he chanced upon a newsfeed that was streaming footage that would have floored Chisolm had he not already been sitting.

He answered his phone, said, “Voronoi, are you watching the news?”

“I was calling to see if you were.”

“Holy Jesus in a cancer ward.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself.”

The asian woman called his number again.

Chisolm said, “Can I call you back in five minutes?”

“Certainly,” he said.

Chisolm approached the counter and said in Chinese, “Could you please turn on that TV?”

“What?”

“Just turn on the fucking TV!” he shouted in English. The crowded lunch hour patrons all turned to look. The confused woman picked up the remote from the counter and a cheap soap opera came on the screen.

“You like this crap?” asked the woman.

“No...change the channel. To...uh...” he checked his PDA, “Two, six, five, oh.”
Gaining her composure and with a 'this better be good' expression, the woman obeyed his request.

Chisolm grabbed his food and returned to his table without turning his attention away from the screen.

The image was of a large landing craft—rare in an age of space elevators—that was literally vomiting a line of red-uniformed soldiers and military armor. An entire brigade from the looks of it. Maybe five thousand men. From the insignia on the landing craft, it was a joint force from the United States and China. Earthlings getting in our shit, thought Chisolm. Suddenly, two hundred and seventy railguns seemed a paltry thing.

His cellphone went off as he shoveled a dumpling into his mouth. He pushed a button, and said around the mouthfull of food, “Voronoi?”

“What do you make of it?”

“I don't know. Where are they? I can't tell from this feed, and nobody's said anything.”

“Twenty or so clicks east of here. Near a smelting plant. One of ours.”

“What do they want?”

“Don't know.”

“Well, guess, goddammit! What do I pay you for?”

“Look, Chisolm,” said Voronoi, completely calm, “this is outside of my realm of expertise. Large scale military operations don't happen every day.”

“Mars is a free state. They have no right to invade like this. It's an act of war!”

“I know that and you know that, but Mars is also a disarmed populace, as you've worked so hard to maintain.”

Slumping back into his seat, Chisolm shoveled a wad of noodles into his fat mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he said, “Maybe someone heard about this before this whole thing went off. Voronoi, time is of the essence. Find out just what puss-filled gym sock that shipment was supposed to go to. I want someone in front of me or an address before the hour is out. I'm forwarding the tracking number from the shipment, it was picked up by Spee-D. I'll be at my office.”

He gathered the rest of his lunch up and hurled his bulky frame out of the restaurant, leaving a stunned and terrified crowd of diners behind.

There's No Place LIke Mars: Chapter 3

“Guns?” said Alistair Voronoi, Chisolm's badger-faced fence.

“Not just guns,” said Chisolm. “These are high-tech personal railguns. They're silent, powerful, and incredibly dangerous. These are assault rifles. There's no place for them here on Mars.”

Voronoi stroked his chin, his face screwed up in concentration. “You want me to move them?”

“No,” said Chisolm, quickly, shaking his head. “Somewhere in Eden, some rat-hole son of a crack whore has almost a hundred and fifty of these things, and I want to know what they're for. Who's stockpiling an arsenal of military-grade weapons on Mars? What else are they stockpiling? And most importantly, how did it get here?”

Again, Voronoi lapsed into silence for a moment before saying, “Well, I can probably find out who the customer is.” And abruptly, he laughed, “He's not going to be happy if half his shipment is missing.”

Chisolm scowled at him. “This isn't funny, you bastard scab sucker. I'll be damned to hell if I let these nutjob space dogs start a war in my Eden.”

“You think they're trying to start a war?”

“What else are these guns for?”

Voronoi stared at Chisolm for a few seconds in thought. Then said, “Alright. I'll see what I can find out. Oh, uh, one question, Mr. Chisolm, before you go.”

“What?”

“How much ammunition was in those crates?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said Voronoi, his features taking on an even more ferrety leer, “a gun is only useful so long as you have something to shoot out of it.”

Chisolm frowned, said, “None.”

“Right,” said Voronoi. “I'll start digging.”

There's No Place Like Mars: Chapter 2

Outside, the loading bay was dominated by an immense plasteel door. On the other side of that door was the monolithic airlock where the loading trolleys waited to equalize pressure between the harsh Martian native atmosphere, and the comfortably humid interior of the dome. Chisolm slipped on his shades against the muted glare of the sun and the red-gray Martian sky. Phobos, the larger of Mars's two moons loomed just above the horizon.

Beyond the airlock, on a huge synthcrete pad, was the land-side station for one of the two space elevators on Mars. If you had binoculors, you could trace the cable that shot straight upward out of the Martian atmosphere to where it terminated in a tiny blinking light.

Off in the distance, Olympus Mons, the tallest mountain in the solar system squatted like a colossal toad. In the caldera at its peak, Chisolm knew, was a research station. It was the largest off-Earth science facility in the solar system. It was operated by Spartan University, whose campus was right here in Eden. The ivory tower in the center of the city was the university's central campus. Chisolm didn't know what sort of research went on up there. Theirs were the only shipments that he did not have access to, since the other space elevator on the planet went directly to Olympus Labs.

The loading bay inside the dome was busy with activity. Crates stacked everywhere, organized by category, were being loaded into trucks and trams which dispersed throughout the city, stocking distro-centers for the Martian people. Some of it would head out into the rural domes, the farms and small factory towns.

Bikram ushered him over to a small warehouse where they kept the dock equipment. They entered through a side door and into the warehouse where forklifts and hover pallets were stacked and and stowed along with various goods and commodities that had been skimmed and had yet to be fenced. Most notably, there was a stack of heavy plasteel crates—about eight in all. One of them was singled out from the rest and sat unlatched but closed.

“I wasn't here when these came in this morning. This is only about half of the shipment. The other half has already been delivered. Jessie was the first person to realize how suspiciously large a private shipment it is. The other morons out there just let them through. But she stopped these eight crates from being delivered.”

Wordlessly, Chisolm approached the crate and opened the lid, gazed inside, and said, “Holy shit.”

“There's sixteen of those in each crate and seventeen crates in the manifest.”

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just me and you and Jessie. Some of the other men know something's strange about these crates, but they don't know what's in 'em.”

“Keep it that way. Hide these crates and find out who the other half of the shipment was delivered to,” said Chisolm. “I'm going to deal with this one personally.”

“Where are you going?” said Bikram as Horton Chisolm began walking purposefully out the door.

“To talk to Voronoi,” said Chisolm, and then he was out the door, furious and worried.

There's No Place Like Mars: Chapter 1

“Bikram is here to see you, sir,” said Horton Chisolm's assistant.

“Wait three minutes and then send him in,” replied the overweight, balding man.
His assistant nodded graciously and bowed out of the shabby office. Chisolm rubbed his large, bloodshot eyes, opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of gin and two glasses. He set these three items strategically on the right hand side of his desk, next to some papers.

Liquor was a highly coveted commodity on Mars, and thus, it was useful to Chisolm to be able to use it as leverage in many ways. In three minutes, he would casually offer a glass to Bikram, as a show of power and as a show of good faith. Bikram was a man he could trust. A man he could count on. A man who deserved some of his gin. And he needed to know this.

He had received a message earlier that day about a number of mysterious crates coming through the loading docks. The message had not said what was in the crates and this made Chisolm nervous. He fished out a bottle of antacids and chewed up one of the tablets.

These days incoming ships were almost daily occurrences. All of that material, those supplies, those commodities, needed to be carefully sorted and distributed, or who knows what kind of bedlam might erupt. Chisolm shuddered, remembering the riots of the early days.

Chisolm counted down the last minute and the door opened. Bikram walked in, looking nervous.

“Have a seat, Bikram.”

The gangly, snaggle-toothed man sat uneasily in the chair on the other side of the desk. Chisolm poured the gin into the two glasses and slid one across to his dock man. “Thanks, boss,” he said, accepting the gin and sipping it. His eyes darted around the room, like he was chasing a gnat with his eyes.

“Do you know what a tough job we have, Bikram?”

Bikram nodded absolute conviction. He knew, alright. He knew all too well, the felonious nature of their business. The sheer volume of goods that had begun pouring into Eden, the only city on Mars, this past few years had been staggering. And with such volume and so few people to manage and monitor it all, some things slipped through that the powers that be were not aware of.

Some bastard asshole even managed to introduce rats into the local economy a couple years back.

It was Chisolm's job to know it all. Nothing passed through the immense airlock outside his office that he or one of his men didn't know about. And it was his right to inspect and claim his percentage.

“I remember when space travel was an unrealized dream. I remember it, Bikram. I was there. Ten years old, watching the old shuttles launch and wanting to be on one. In those days, it was too much to hope for a trip into orbit, much less live here with almost a million other people. You're too young for that. You were born here, right Bikram?”

Bikram nodded.

Almost casually, Chisolm went on, “What pisspot shitbag's been smuggling contraband into my city today?”

“We don't know, sir. But--”

“What is it, liquor? Chocolate? Puppies? More fucking rats?”

Bikram forced a laugh. “Maybe, boss, you should see for yourself.”