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"Incoming multiple agency response call," the dispatch computer said in it's calm, cool, collected voice. A second later, rows of text appeared on the screen.
"What is it?" asked Lisa, who was behind the wheel of the cart on this day. It had been another slow shift and she was ready for a little action to break up the monotony. A multiple agency response meant that something big was going down.
"34th Street and 7th Avenue," Brian told her, reading from the screen. "Heavy smoke in the streets. Multiple calls from citizens and the fire suppression systems have been activated at that intersection. Some of the call-ins seem to think a vehicle of some sort is burning."
"A vehicle huh?" Lisa said, turning the cart around and flipping on the emergency lights. "That could be nasty if it's a delivery truck carrying chemicals or something."
"Yep," Brian agreed, reaching under his seat and pulling out his gas mask.
In the enclosed environment of the Martian cities, fire was treated with considerably more respect than it was on Earth. On Mars, there was no outside to go to when things started to burn and the smoke had no natural way to escape from the area. Visibility would quickly be obliterated as smoke built up under the glass roof and people blocks away could easily be choked to death on noxious fumes if they were trapped in the vicinity. Though automatic fire suppression sprinklers were every twenty meters on the streets and every five meters in every building, they were good only for extinguishing minor blazes in the earliest stages of development. Major blazes, as this one seemed to be based on the dispatch information, required the use of high-pressure water hoses and lots of manpower. For this reason all public safety employees, the police included, were trained in firefighting and dispatched in large numbers whenever such an incident occurred.
"Holy shit," Brian said as they approached the area. "I guess something's burning all right." Though they were still six blocks away a haze of black smoke was quickly accumulating up along the ceiling. It grew into a thick fog further down the street. Hundreds of people, many of them coughing and with soot on their faces, were rushing out of the area, making it difficult for Lisa to navigate the cart through them. "Computer," he asked, "are any units on scene yet?"
"Negative," the computer replied. "I'm showing you as the closest so far. The next-in unit should be DPHS unit Delta-7. They are currently at 53rd Street and 7th Avenue."
"Copy, thanks," Brian said. He turned to Lisa. "We'd better get our masks and goggles on. This shit is gonna get thick in a minute."
"Right," she agreed, reaching down and picking up her own mask.
They covered their faces with the gas masks, which were capable of filtering out all but oxygen and nitrogen from the environment. They then pulled their combat goggles down over their eyes, setting them for infrared enhancement, which would allow them to see through the smoke. It was fortunate that they did this because within seconds the smoke became so thick that visibility would have been impossible. The streets however, were now mostly empty of citizens. Martians knew their fire drills well, having been taught since birth that it was imperative to get into a nearby building in the even of a blaze on the street. Buildings in the vicinity were automatically sealed off and imparted with air pressure greater than the street level to keep the smoke out.
A block away from the incident the actual flames became visible as a roaring red pyre in the infrared spectrum. Brian and Lisa could vaguely make out the source as a vehicle of some sort, possibly a panel truck. Their computer informed them that the heat was building up and that it was safe to go no further without protection. Lisa stopped the cart and they got out, going around to the back of it to remove their suppression suits, which were essentially coveralls made of bright yellow, synthetic, fire-proof material that did not conduct heat very well. As they put them on, Brian contacted the dispatch computer again. "Who's in command of this incident?" he asked.
"Battalion Chief 9 of DPHS," the computer told him. "She is still several kilometers away."
"Copy," Brian said, sliding his arms into the sleeves. "Battalion 9, this is EPD four-delta-five-nine."
"Go ahead, delta-five-nine," said the husky voice of the chief.
"We're on scene about a block out," he updated her. "It looks like a fully involved vehicle of some sort. Heavy smoke for four blocks in every direction and high heat in the vicinity. All of the citizens are off the streets as far as I can see. I recommend that when you get enough units close enough to fight it, we shut down the blast doors for a five block radius and start ventilating."
"Copy that, delta-five-nine," she said. "Will do."
"We're suiting up now," he told her next. "We'll move in and try to get some water on it."
They finished donning their suits, zipping them completely over their helmets and faces, leaving only enough room for their masks and goggles to peak out. "You ready?" Lisa asked Brian.
"I'm ready," he replied. "Let's do it."
They began to trot in the direction of the blaze, their combat goggles allowing them to see through the choking smoke, their suits protecting them from the heat. The blaze grew brighter and brighter as they approached and the shape of the object burning grew increasingly distinct.
"That looks like a fuckin FLEB van," Lisa observed.
"Sure does," Brian agreed, noting that it actually seemed to be melting from the intense heat. "And somehow I don't think that fire is accidental."
They split up when they reached the intersection, each of them heading for one of the four "fire stations" that were located at every intersection of streets. The fire stations were locked cabinets in which one hundred meters of six centimeter fire hose was stored, hooked up to a high capacity hydrant. Dip-hoe carts all carried extra hose in case the one hundred meters was not enough to reach a particular incident. In this case however, the burning van was less than thirty meters away from two of the stations.
Brian reached his station first. He looked at the number printed on it and then talked to the dispatch computer. "Computer," he told it. "Unlock fire station 34-7-2."
The computer quickly analyzed his voice pattern and concluded that he had authorization to order such a thing. A second later there was a click and the mechanism slid open. Inside of the compartment the hemp hose was wrapped around a large reel, a large nozzle resting on top of it. Brian grabbed the nozzle and put it over his shoulder. He began to walk towards the fire, the hose unreeling behind him as he pulled. Across the street, Lisa had reached her station and was doing the same.
When he got within ten meters of the blaze, his patrol computer warned him that the heat was becoming too intense for safety. He stopped. "Computer," he said. "Charge up my hose."
The computer complied, opening the main valve on his station and allowing water to rush forth into the hemp. The flat hose on the street suddenly ballooned up as it was filled, the various twists and turns jumping up and down and then resettling. When the water reached the nozzle, the weight of the hose against his shoulder suddenly quadrupled. Brian brought the nozzle down against his chest and then opened it, allowing a powerful stream of water to blast out towards the burning van. The sheer force of it tried to knock him off his feet but he braced himself tightly, just as he always had in the training classes, and kept the stream on the flames. Slowly, he began to move in.
His stream of water was joined by Lisa's less than a minute later. Although there was no negligible effect at first, their streams were soon joined by others as the first dip-hoe team arrived and activated the other two stations at the intersection. The smoke billowed even thicker for a few moments as the battalion chief ordered the blast doors shut around them to contain it. But a few moments later it began to dramatically thin as exhaust ports in the roof were opened up, allowing it to escape into the Martian atmosphere. Ventilation engines in the enclosed areas then kicked into overdrive, blasting fresh air into the area as fast as it was being sucked out by the pressure difference.
Once four water streams were concentrated upon it, the blaze was knocked down in less than five minutes, revealing that the vehicle was indeed a FLEB van, although now a partially melted and grotesquely distorted one. It was when Brian, Lisa, and the other cops and dip-hoes moved in to inspect the interior of the van that they made the shocking discovery that it was still occupied. Ten bodies were inside, all of them little more than grinning, blackened skeletons with melted helmets on their heads and charred body armor over their ribs. Their weapons, which were mostly plastic with steel barrels, were melted lumps in their laps or on the floor.
"Christ," Brian said, glad that he still had his mask on. He could imagine what the smell would be like in there. "What do you think did this?"
"A Molotov cocktail," replied one of the dip-hoes, an old, crusty one that looked like he had at least twenty years on the job. "I've seen them used before during the riots of '28. A little pressurized hydrogen in a Fruity bottle, a simple igniter designed to fire on impact, and you have yourself a hell of a fire."
"Where the hell do they get pressurized hydrogen?" Lisa asked, unable to take her eyes off of the charred bodies.
"Contacts in the agricultural industry," the dip-hoe replied. "The same place they get the chemicals for making dust."
This theory was strengthened by the finding of a large chunk of concrete, blackened but still intact, resting between the front seats of the van.
"Look at that," the old dip-hoe said, pointing it out. "I bet they threw that concrete through first, shattering the window, and then followed it up a second or two later with the Molotov." He smiled a little, seemingly impressed by this. "Pretty smart," he said. "Two simple ballistic throws and you've got ten feds charbroiled. Guess they won't be taking down any pamphlet makers anymore, will they?"
"Or gunning down any protesters in front of their office," one of the other dip-hoes put in.
Brian and Lisa both stared at the blackened corpses for a moment, both knowing that they should feel outraged at the murder of fellow law enforcement officers, both feeling guilt that they didn't. After all, these feds had undoubtedly been on their way to yet another illegal raid upon Martian civilians when the attack occurred. When you came right down to it, shouldn't they expect this sort of thing considering the way they had been operating lately?
"Ten less Earthlings we have to worry about now," Brian said, stepping back away from the van.
"You got that right," Lisa agreed.
Once the smoke was evacuated from the area, the blast doors on the perimeter were opened back up and an all-clear signal was given to the surrounding buildings. From every lobby curious Martians and a few scattered Earthlings came pouring out to resume their business. Human nature being what it always had been, most of them maneuvered themselves so they could pass as closely as possible to the burned out van. A few were even able to catch bare glimpses of the charred corpses inside. The Martians that witnessed this all went away grinning.
Lieutenant Duran and the DPH Battalion Chief showed up at the same time. While the BC went about the task of arranging a fire investigation, Duran rounded up all of the cops on scene. "All right people," she told them with a sigh. "It looks like we got ourselves a multiple homicide investigation to handle here."
"Question, lieutenant?" said Sam Stanislaus, a five-year police officer.
"What is it Sam?" she asked.
"Is it really considered a homicide if the victims are a bunch of fed fucks?" he asked with a smile. "I mean, shouldn't we think of it as more of a public assistance?"
"Or defense of life," another cop put in. "They were probably on their way to jack some poor slobs printing pamphlets."
Everyone had a laugh over this, Duran included. When it died down she said: "While I'm inclined to agree with you, we still have to go through the motions here. So, Haggarty, Wong, Stanislaus, and Ventner, start picking through this crowd and see if you can find any witnesses."
"Oh right, lieutenant," Brian said. "I'm sure that our fellow Martians here will be glad to provide statements about who killed these poor feds. How many statements should we get? Is twenty enough or should we go for thirty?"
This produced another round of laughter. "Just go through the motions, will you?" Duran asked them. "Even shithead feds deserve the same sort of jerk-off treatment that we give to welfare class homicides, don't they?"
Everyone was forced to agree that this might be true. Brian, Lisa, and the other two fanned out through the crowd, asking if anyone had seen anything and each recording "I didn't see nothing" more than a hundred times for the report.
Just as the forensics unit showed up to begin combing the van and its contents for evidence, three more FLEB vans arrived on the scene. They parked less than ten meters away from the crime scene and fully armed and armored agents poured out of their doors, all of them rushing over to the burned van and looking inside, their expressions horror at what they saw. The cops, dip-hoes, and civilians all watched this spectacle as it occurred, more than a few of them making snide remarks. The man in charge of the team, a high-ranking agent by the name of Don Mitchell, found Lieutenant Duran soon after having his worst fears confirmed.
"Any arrests made?" he asked her, glaring at the jeering crowd of Martians.
"Nope," she said. "Nobody saw anything. At least that's their story."
"Somebody saw it happen," he said, taking an angry step towards her. "Some piece of shit greenie can't throw a goddamn chunk of concrete and an incendiary device through the window of one of my vans in broad daylight without someone seeing it. I want some witnesses and I want them now!"
Duran stared at him levelly. "I'll thank you to take a step back from me and lower your tone," she told him sternly. "I don't give a shit who you are, I will not be addressed in that manner."
"Ten of my men are dead!" he yelled, not stepping back. "How dare you..."
Four of the Eden police officers stepped forward, their hands resting on their tanners. "The lieutenant said to step back," one of them told Mitchell menacingly.
"I'd advise you to do as they say," Duran said lightly. "As you've noted, tempers are a little short among us greenies lately, especially when feds are involved."
"Are you threatening me?" he asked her, his face turning red beneath his helmet.
"Take it for what you will," she told him. "But step back and lower your voice when you address me and we'll get along a lot better."
He took a step backwards, to the delight of the crowd watching. He did not, however, lower his voice much. "My men are taking over this investigation," he said. "We're assuming federal authority under the WestHem code."
Duran smiled. "Static," she said. "It's all yours." She keyed her radio up. "All units on the 34th street incident, turn your reports over to me and resume patrol. Our federal friends are going to handle this investigation by themselves."
Mitchell was somewhat taken aback by how easily she gave it up. "What is this?" he asked her.
"You think we want to stand around here smelling dead fed if we don't have to?" Duran asked him. "Have fun with the investigation. I know you folks have lots of experience with this sort of thing, don't you?"
The sarcasm in her voice was quite evident. Mitchell knew, as well as Duran and all of the other cops, that the federal officers were real good at tracking down copyright violators and computer hackers but despite the Internet shows lauding them, were a little short on actual crime experience. "Well," he said slowly, backpedaling a bit, "we will need to use your forensics unit of course."
"Put your request in through Chief Daniel's office," Duran told him. "But until he tells me otherwise, the forensic unit pulls out as well. And I have a pretty good idea what the chief is going to say."
"Now wait a minute," Mitchell said. "Maybe we're getting off on the wrong foot here..."
"We'll turn over everything we've gathered to this point to you," she said. "Have fun. Hope you find your man."
Five minutes later all of the information was downloaded to the FLEB investigation computers and the Eden police officers, every last one of them, cleared the scene and went about their routine duties. When Chief Daniels was asked to dispatch a forensics team to assist in the investigation thirty minutes later, the request was denied without explanation.
Three hours later, in Denver, FLEB director Stanley Clinton was briefing executive council member Loretta Williams on the firebomb attack on Mars. Word had reached Earth via the big three Internet news stations long before it arrived through official channels. TRAGEDY ON MARS, it was being called, a name which was certainly not the catchiest the media had ever come up with, but which did convey the emotion that the Earthlings were feeling about the loss of ten FLEB agents quite well. The briefing was not a face-to-face one, as it were. Instead, they were accomplishing their meeting via secure Internet transmission from his office to hers.
"We have nothing," he told her, shaking his head angrily. "The Eden police chief has refused to allow our agents the use of their forensics unit or their manpower and the greenies... well, I don't think I have to tell you how much cooperation we're getting out of them. Hayes told me that three of the agents trying to question the crowd outside of that building were physically attacked."
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