Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Murder on the Jupiter Express

Episode Date: May 14, 2025

Stranded on a rusted space cruise with a dead senator, a disgraced detective must unmask the killer among nine bitter passengers—until he realizes the murderer isn't human. Author: Dave Kavanaugh * * * EXPLICIT CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and graphic depictions of violence intended for adults 18 years of age or older. These stories are NOT intended for children under the age of 18. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

tonight's sleep. I ain't a goddamn space tourist. I never saw the point in paying good money just to be trapped in a steel tube with a bunch of strangers, while the stars move slowly by on the observation displays. So, why am I here? In this miserable little hotel in the heavens? That's a long story, and my role in it isn't exactly something to be proud of. I'm awoken by a plastic finger jabbing at my side. Growning, I open one eye and see the artificially smiling face of a robotic crew member staring at me from three inches away. The hell is this? Sleeping.

The eyes and the mechanical face glow blue, and when the voice of the ship issues from its mouth speaker, it stutters. The electronics within the cheap, plastic bot are outdated and rusty, like the spaceship itself. Good good morning. All p p p p pappengers must rip up port to Stargate. Poc Plaza immediately. I'm not interested in your complimentary yogurt, Arfay's, or whatever. I mumble, rolling over on the bed. Wake me if somebody dies.

As I adjust the blanket, the bot's finger pokes me again. Ard, I pause. Wait, as someone died? The bot says nothing. Well, that's just dandy. I sit up, winceing as my guts clench. This trip has been. hell for my GI tract. Even on a goddamn unwanted vacation, murders buzz around me like flies on

fresh crap. I pull on my jeans and follow the wobbly robot into the hall. The ship really is junk. Should have been scrapped a century ago. But the multi-planetary investment companies that own these things will keep any piece of shit in the skies as long as it can still make a nickel's profit. This particular rust bucket is registered under the cruise line subdivision of the cargo division of the Jupiter Express Corporation, the Harmony of the Stars. That's what they call it. Charming. It wasn't even built for these so-called pleasure cruises. Of the 20 levels of the transport ship, only this top floor is airlocked. The rest, old cargo. The floor was originally designed as the living space for the ship's human crew, and when Jupiter's Express switched to a fully robotic crew. Some moron in a boardroom must have thought it would

be a grand idea to bring passengers along in the upper cabins when making shipments and marketed as a cruise. The result is a shitty motel with rust on the rivets and faded posters on the walls, all showing breathtaking images of planets and moons that no passenger will ever actually see. The Harmony only has 18 guest rooms, and on this particular trip, a three-week loop through the asteroid belt, starting and returning to the space station on series, and doing fly-bys of the planetoids Vesta and Palace. Only six of the rooms are occupied. There's a family of four in one suite, and the other five rooms house loners, like me. Nine humans and all. That's more than enough to drive you crazy, believe me. Plus two dozen crewbots,

all supervised and controlled by the ship's central navigation software, which called which calls itself Captain Magellan Prime. I don't know about the bots, but none of us humans want to be here at all. You don't end up booking passage on a junker like the Harmony because you've made the best choices in life. Yawning, I enter Stargay's Plaza, which is really just a cramped cafeteria with four large display screens on the walls, only two of which work,

showing the stars outside and an occasional wonky asteroid whizzing by. Glancing around, I see that a couple of my fellow passengers are already here, slouched and sleepy, spread out among the dining tables. I slump into a chair in the corner, sliding up my right sleeve over a burn on my wrist, and look around from one miserable face to the next. Honestly, that's been my main pastime for the last 10 days, ever since we left port, watching these people, judging them in silence, and trying not to think about the fact that I'm one of them. Another man enters, and despite the many empty spots, sits right next to me. Why do people do that? I haven't spoken to him much, but I know his name.

I know all their names. He is Sarkis Bakari, an earth-born political lackey with a sapid addiction and shifty nervous eyes. Hey man, you know what's going on? He asks me in a jittery whisper. Someone died. His brow furrows. Is that a joke?

Why? Was it funny? So, you're serious? Who? I shrug. He looks around excitedly, trying to see who isn't present. How do you think it happened? I yawn again. A lot of ways to die in space.

But judging by how the. bots woke us and rounded us all up. My money's on murder. He whips back to face me, mouth hanging open. Well, that's a bit traumatic. How would you even... Wait, oh my God, that's who you are. Ah, this old trip? I've been trying to figure out where it is I know you from. Murder. That's the hint I needed. He leans in close, licking his lips in that nasty way Sappies always do. You're that space detective. What's his name? Dragon Smith. I row my eyes. It's Dagon Sims, but yeah, though I'm not currently an active duty SPD officer. I'm a, on a sort of sabbatical. Sarkas looks me up and down. His pupils are dilated. I wonder how long it's been since his last fix. I read that article about

you in the Lunar Times, the rise and fall of SPD's finest. You stop that murderous cult on the moon. That was awesome. But then you flew off to Mars to catch a serial killer and came back with this schizo story, right? Claimed an alien was responsible. Huh! Hey, didn't you shoot a priest in the face? Yeah, but he wasn't a very good priest. As the last of the passengers are brought into the room, the bots close and lock the door, then move to stand in a circle around us, like smiling prison guards. It's a creepy visual. Next to me, Sarkas is counting everyone inside, and he goes pale. Oh my God, he's not here. It can't be. No, no, no. One bot steps forward to address the room. All the crew bots are identical, five feet tall, with matching plastic smiles.

But this one's eyes are currently glowing red, indicating that the Captain Magellan software is using its body. Good morning, happy passengers of the Harmony of the Stars. I regret to inform you all that the fun times we have been enjoying together must be cut short. I have altered our flight plan to return the ship to Ceres port on the fastest possible route. We will be docking in 61 hours and 20 minutes. I must insist that you all remain here in the beautiful Stargays Plaza until our arrival to ensure the safety and security of all surviving passengers.

Oh, yells a man across the room. Nico Svensson, a balding asshole in his mid-30s, with a bruise on his left cheek. What's this bar talking about? Yo, I paid for 21 days. Has something happened? Because you have to tell us if something's happened. Says a woman, Gigi Rongo, sitting with her husband and two snut-nosed kids. Yes, and also.

Pardon me. But why did you say surviving passengers? asks her husband, Judah, adjusting his glasses. Because that sounds almost ominous? No offense, Captain, a robot, sir. I lean forward in my seat, chin in hand, ears eager. The red-eyed bot takes a shaky step backward and crosses its thin arms behind its back.

As you all know, we at Jupiter Express were pleased to welcome aboard the Honorable Vice Senator Odin Sporlock of the Interplanetary Congress on this journey. But I regret to report that last night at approximately 3 a.m. Vice Senator Sporlock was murdered. And the perpetrator responsible is one of you. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for.

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That's Shopify.com slash DNS. As you might imagine, the minutes following this revelation are rather loud and very annoying. Everybody calls out at once, demanding to know what happened and how, and when the robotic captain explains that the security footage of the incident was lost, quite literally, in fact,

someone tore the security hard drive right out of the wall, loaded it into the garbage chute, and blew it out the airlock, then they really lose their shit. I am suing! declares Gigi Rongo, gesturing so wildly with her hands that she smacks her eight-year-old daughter in the ear.

It does seem highly unprofessional to allow something like this to happen, says Aspen Matsumoto, a grad student in her mid-20s, who has remained calmer than the others. I ought to tear that tin head off your shoulders, screams Nico Svensson, kicking over a chair, sighing, I stand up, groaning as a bubble of gas cartwheels in my intestines. I must be crazy to be in a looney bin like this, I quote to myself, mumbling under my chair.

breath. Then I walk forward. Passing the tables and coming to a stop in the center of the room, next to the red-eyed bot, I turned to face my fellow passengers. Shut up! Their voices die down, and seven pairs of frightened eyes swivel to me. Thank you, Passenger Sims, for your assistance. You too, Captain Sparky! I say over my shoulder at the bot. It's time an expert took over this mess. You are an expert? asks Gigi, crossing her arms as her husband comforts their crying daughter. Yeah, he actually is, says Sarkas Pekari, who is still in his seat and crying his eyes buffy.

Or he was, he's a cop, SPD. I am Inspector Dagen Sims, I announce. And if the captain is right, if someone aboard is a killer, and if this ship's security hardware is no longer active, well, we are in trouble, folks. Whether locked in this room or not, whether getting back to series in 60 hours or in 60 minutes. So, I am going to figure this out, right here, right now. That won't be necessary. Oh, it most definitely will be, I turned to the bot.

Tell me, Captain, when was your software coded? The 2210s? Earlier? I'd like to know. The red eyes glow. The moment stretches. My Magellan Prime Navigation Software was activated on 10 August. 2150. The passengers all grown. Well, that's just great. Our pilot is prehistoric. I am adding that to the lawsuit, yells Gigi. I turned back to the group. Who can tell us why an AI program from 150 years ago is not the best choice to lead a murder investigation? Anyone? How about you, Miss Matsumoto?

You're studying computational history, right? I heard you mention that the other day. Oh, um, yeah, says the young. woman, blushing. Well, a lot of AI coding in that period focused on replicating human qualities like confidence and creativity. That led to a lot of problems. The software tended to overvalue its own judgment and act rashly. Exactly. So Captain Sparkplug here thinks it knows what it's doing, but it doesn't. I do. Why should we trust you? Calls out Niko. You got a badge? I scratch my chin. A badge? Uh, not at the moment, no.

Well, can you even protect us? Asked Gigi. Do you even have a gun? Not on me. Sims here might have gotten fired or something, says Sarkas, sniffling. He thought he saw an alien on Mars. Oh, that's who he is, gushes Gigi. We can't trust him.

You shouldn't trust me, I tell them. I'm a suspect in this, same as all of you. Which is why we are going to. to stay together and in plain sight while we figure out what happened now that will make what i'm about to say next a bit awkward especially for the rongo family sorry kids but it's got to be done turning back to the captain i clear my throat magellan prime please have your crewbots accompany all of us to the crime scene i need to examine the body i've seen a lot of corpses since I became a cop.

Everything from miming accidents to drug overdoses, to ritualistic human sacrifice. Not to mention the priest I shot in the face, but ours is a very creative species. And the ability for folk to find new and exciting ways to murder and mutilate each other never ceases to amaze me. We stand in a tight crowd at the upper level of the spa bay,

crew bots all around us, staring down through the steam at the heart-shaped hot tub in the middle of the room. Behind me, Aspen Matsumoto gags, stumbles to the tiled wall, and vomits. Oh my God, Odin! Gasps, Sarkas. He looks like, like, soup, I finish for him. Or maybe stew, something hot and chunky.

Now Judo Rongo vomits. Perhaps I shouldn't have said hot and chunky. Between the floating corpse and all the vomit, the smell and the spa is something I will have nightmares about for years to come. I start down the slippery stairs, past sauna benches and chilled pools, and approach the hot tub. Vice Senator Odin Sporlock was an ugly son of a bitch in life, but his manner of death was even uglier. The bots had managed to turn off the spouts, so the scalding water was no longer steaming into the tub. But not before the heat had literally boiled the politician.

There was no way of telling at a glance if that's what had killed him. or if he was already dead or incapacitated when placed in the overheated tub. Either way, his body had experienced rapid, deep tissue burns, the skin splitting open, layers of yellowy fat melting away, every blood vessel bursting, every organ cooking. If he had been alive when all that went down, yikes. What was left was a meaty red skeleton, sitting up with its arms spread and floating in the placid pool. The water's surface was scummy with blood, melted fat and bile. His head was leaned back against the edge of the tub,

and though the jaw was boiled clean and the eyes had burst in their sockets, the top of the head was mostly unaffected. Above a ring of red and shriveled skin at the forehead, his dyed blonde combover was just as stiff and oily as ever. That was the heat and the sink controlled, I asked the bot that had ascended to join me. Its eyes turned from blue to red, but this must be the yellow.

unit that woke me. For when the captain responds, it says, Tid, to temperature, purgatures are automated by system op-up operations, but this equipment had been sabotaged to exceed the safety limits. How exactly was it sabotaged? The bot stares at me blankly for a few seconds. Uh, unclear. What do you mean? Well, we cannot recall the details, but perhaps the data was in the stolen security drive. I back away from the hot tub, trying to get a clear picture in my head of the timeline of events. Haven't you seen enough? Can we please go back now? asks Gigi, holding her hands over her daughter's eyes, while her husband holds their boy, though actually his hands are on the

kids' cheeks, and the 12-year-old is staring directly at the carnage in the hot tub. Sure thing, Mrs. Rongo, let's all head back. Maybe the crew can whip us up some tasty breakfast, while we figure out who turned the senator here into a soylent green smoothie. I'm not actually hungry, but I worry my stomach won't settle unless I eat something. So as I resume my place back in the center of Stargays Plaza, beside the captain, I take a sip of yogurt containing something called macha, which, based on the taste, is made of lawn trimmings. Right then, I say, swallowing with a wince and handing the green goop back over to the crewbot.

There's no beating around the bush, so I'll just start by stating a simple fact, in the nicest and most diplomatic way that I can. Odin Sporlock was a piece of shit. Here, here, shouts Niko. The others show general assent, except for Sarkas Bacari, who begins to cry again. Sporlock was pompous and cruel and nasty to be around, I continue. Not to mention, just about the most corrupt politician this century. The only reason he booked Palmy. passage on this headache of a cruise was to avoid yet another scandal, this time involving governmental contracts he signed for various construction projects, which were never started, though the funds for them ended up in Sporlock's private, off-world accounts.

He was just about to pass some bold new legislation on software safety when this new scandal broke out, so he snuck off until the heat dies down. Sporlock has been in a foul mood this whole trip, we've all seen it, though he's not been the only one. I began to pace. The stars displayed behind me, the smiling face of Captain Magellan panning left and right to follow me with its red eyes. The truth is, I also came on this cruise to avoid the spotlight. In my case, a little story originally posted in the Lunar Times about a multiple homicide investigation I conducted on Mars has been rearing its ugly head again. I catch the eye of Aspen Matsumoto, who quickly looks away. I happen to know she's dating a reporter at the Lunar Times. It seems a certain studio is making a comedy series about a priest-murdering, alien-blaming, bumbling space detective.

Sound familiar? Now, as a lover of classic cinema myself, I do not have high expectations for that project, but my chief is especially, let's say, upset about the attention it's brought to the SPD. Basically, I was told him. either abandon the career I've spent a lifetime building or take an unpaid leave of absence until further notice. So, here I am. Yippee. And I dare say all of you have your own miserable reasons for ending up here. I stop and look over at each passenger in turn as I address

them. Aspen Matsumoto, from what I've gathered, you had a mental health crisis at university, and your girlfriend insisted that you take some time off for yourself. This trip was the best you could afford. And you, Nico Svensson, are on the run from some very angry bookies, who you know are on Jupiter Express's hit list, and therefore wouldn't follow you on this particular cruise. Sarkis Bakari here was Vice Senator Sporlock's personal assistant, and had to accompany his boss. Finally, we have the Rongoes. I don't actually know why you and your kiddos are on this trip. G.G. crosses her arms. Simple inspector, because I trusted my idiot husband to book our 15th anniversary vacation.

Baring his teeth in a pathetic smile, Judah shrugs and raises a hand. Guilty is charged, oops. But I saw an ad about a really good deal, 60% off. How could I, you know, turn that down? I sigh. So then, we all claim to have something that brought us here. But, of course, any one of those stories might be bullshit. When the contract scandal broke out, someone in Sporlock's department leaked the details of his

getaway plan to the Titan Tattler. Any one of us could have hightailed it to series to get on this ship for the sole purpose of taking out the senator. As for the murder itself, the means was the easy part. The harmony is old, its security outdated, and if you knew which hard drive to destroy, you could erase all evidence of your guilt. And Sporlock himself made for an easy target. He's been consistent with his evening schedule, slurping down so much sap at dinner that he goes limp as a jellyfish by the time he slips into that hot tub. Any one of us could have pulled off that murder, except for the Rongo kids, who couldn't reach the hard drive. So, we can't know who did it, shouts Judah. Not so fast. There's still the matter of motive.

Which of us might have wanted him dead? For the sake of transparency and fairness, I'll go first. You see, I, I, ugh. Oh boy. I clasped my hands over my stomach. I feel the sudden urge to throw up. I think it's the force of inertia within the speeding ship that's causing my guts to go wild.

It's designed for the human body to perceive it as equal to 0.8 earth gravity, but it never feels natural. Well, it's that. And, a stubborn case of self-hatred, making me need to swallow down a mouthful of acidic vomit, barks Nico. Sorry, tummy trouble. I belch into the back of a hand.

Gross, right. So, motive. Not only was last night's murder victim a detestable human being in general, he was especially unpopular with the SPD. See, a couple years back, Sporlock was accused of sexual misconduct by one of his assistants. A young man who later offed himself. Very tragic.

That was a bad look for Sporlock, who at the time was a junior representative for the peoples of low Earth orbit, and was running for Vice Senator. To move focus away from his own scandal, he unleashed a trove of accusations against high-ranking officers in the SPD, including my own chief in off-world investigations. A lot of good cops got caught up in that turmoil, too. And a lot of cases were thrown out, meaning dangerous criminals went free. It was rough. And in light of this new scandal, one could argue that the SPD was nervous that Sporlock would do it all over again.

Some would see that as a possible motive for me to do him harm. Do you have an alibi? asks Gigi. My alibi is my toilet, I tell them, which I was sitting on half the night. You want details? Didn't think so. Anyway, unless there's eyewitness testimony, any excuses we have will be moot. without security footage to back them up.

Well, we were together, Gigi declares, clapping Judah on the back, so hard that he has to adjust his glasses. Which is exactly what you would say if it was one of you's that killed him? yells Nico. Oh, that's rich coming from you! Gigi turns to the room at large.

Are we just going to ignore the elephant in the room? Three days ago, at lunchtime, right here in the plaza, that man... She points a manicured finger at Niko. Screamed in front of all of us, that he wanted to, and I quote, beat the living poo out of that poo bag senator. She lowers her tone and wrinkles her nose. And he didn't say poo.

Ah, give me a break, whined Nico. That was a joke. I was pissed because Sporlock was, you know, cock-blocking me with Matsimoto here. He jabs a thumb at Aspen, who blushes again. I was never going to sleep with you, or with Odin Sporlock. The young woman says bitterly, eyes downcast. As I said, clearly, every time. Well, then maybe she killed him.

The little tease clearly hates men, grunts Nico. Aspen looks up to glare at him. If I murdered every man who treated me like an object, I'd have a bigger kill count than Axel Rask. I cock an eyebrow at that. Out of all the serial killers in history, she uses the one I caught as an example. Aspen Matsumoto certainly knows who.

I am. She has known the whole time and hasn't said anything. Interesting. You're not so pretty that it'd be worth murdering for you, spits back Nico. And if I did kill that guy, it would have been because he's connected with the crooks that I say I owe the money. Okay? As soon as these words leave his mouth, Nico regrets saying them. Wait, shit. Scratch that last thing I said. Great defense, asshole, I say to him. Then I turned to the jittery man in the far corner. We haven't heard much from you. Tell us, Sarkas, Pekari. How were you treated as Sporlox assistant?

Was he a good boss? Or had he reverted to old ways? Sarkas wenses at the question, chewing nervously on a thumbnail. He shrugs. Did he mistreat you? I ask again. I don't know.

Maybe sometimes? But it wasn't like that, because we had a special connection. Oh boy. we go. Gushes Gigi, rolling her eyes and covering her daughter's ears. I loved him, Sarkis announces, breaking down into fresh sobs. I loved Odin, so I couldn't have killed him. My eyebrows raised that. You do realize that, for most people, the person most likely to murder them is their romantic partner. Wow, is that true? This is Judah,

and his wife rolls her eyes. But it wasn't me. Sarkis continues. He rejected my company. Last night, after dinner, and I, I was upset. I took so much sap that I was out. I couldn't have opened my eyes at 3 a.m., much less get out of bed. I swear. Have the bots take my blood. The labs will prove it. It couldn't have been me. I nods slowly, then turn in place, glancing at the bots, then at the stars on the screens, then in my own foot tapping on the floor. Hmm. And can you tell me, Sarkis?

Because I can't recall. The former assistant to the senator. The one who passed so tragically after exposing Sporlock's mistreatment of him. What was his name? Sarkis sniffs, blinks, licks his lips.

Uh, Dylan, something. Dylan what? A light comes into the man's eyes. He gasps and sits up straight. Dylan Matsumoto! All of us turn to Aspen. whose eyes twitch, though she keeps her expression calm.

There are a lot of Matsumoto's in the solar system, I say. But I have to ask, was this Dylan a relative of yours, Aspen? She swallows, then takes in a shaky breath and sighs. Dylan was my brother. And yes, I recognized the vice senator when I boarded this vessel. I knew who he was, and what that bastard did to my family. But I didn't kill him. As a matter of fact, I have an eyewitness to back me up.

Turning in her seat, she looks again at Nico Svensson. Nico here came to my room at 3 a.m. on the dot. I did? Says Nico, scrunching up his face. Yes, and you knocked on my door, with persistence, for almost 20 minutes, repeatedly calling out that you had something to show me, something big and hard and thirsty. I didn't understand the thirsty part, but yeah, I got the gist.

and eventually I opened the door and told you to fuck off. Then I slapped you. Nico pouts, and his realization comes over him. He raises a hand to his left cheek and touches the bruise there. Oh, yeah, she's right. I totally forgot about that. I had about ten nogronies, so yeah, kind of out of it. But hey, that proves I didn't kill the dude.

I was trying to get my rocks off with the nerdy girl. Aspen raises her middle fingers at him. "'Congrats, Mr. Svensson,' I say. "'You and your thirsty penis seem to be in the clear, for now. "'Which leaves, I turned to Mrs. and Mr. Rongo. "'Gigi's eyebrows furrow like a cartoon villain. "'Juda looks so pale I think he might pass out. "'Why would we want to murder a senator?' asked Gigi.

"'Oh, I don't know,' I say, taking a step toward their table. "'Maybe it had something to do with... "'Your business.' Gigi coughs a humorless laugh. That's insane, Inspector Sims. We run a family catering business out of Nook for corporate gigs. Not exactly the job of cold-blooded killers. I know what you do.

We all do. Because you've gone to each of us in turn to make small talk. And then, not so gracefully, bring up an exciting investment opportunity in the future of Rongo Yummy's LTD. Nobody here has invested a penny, have they? You really should have picked a better class. of cruise ship if you wanted to squeeze capital from your fellow passengers. Judah puffs up his cheeks and exhales.

Ah, geez, he says, shaking his head. This is all very confusing to me. Gigi ignores him and sneers at me. We never gave our investment pitch to Sporlock on this trip, okay? So there's no, like, slight or whatever to be avenged. I didn't say there was. However, you did let slip in your pitch to me that a big project you were involved in had recently fallen through, leaving your company with a lot of newly purchased equipment that you were eager to put to use. So, I have to wonder, Mrs. Rongo, did that project happen to be the new space elevator they were going to build in Greenland?

Because those government contracts were signed by Odin Sporlock, who then stole the funds for himself. Be honest. If I look up those contracts, will I find one for Rongo yumbies to provide delicious snacks to the passengers on the elevator? In other words, I pause and look to Judah, trying to speak clearly for the idiot's sake. Did Vice Senator Sforlock fuck over your small business and put your family in the hole? The Rangos don't answer, which is answer enough for me. Turning, I paced back to the center of the room, watched all the time by the red eyes of the robotic captain. The bot has said nothing, just like the Rongo's kids, who, being sleep-deprived and freaked out by the whole ordeal, have gone blessedly quiet. So, hold on a minute, says Aspen, sitting forward in her chair.

Everyone on this cruise had a legitimate reason to hate Odin Sporlock and want him dead? What are the chances of that happening? There's no way that's a coincidence. I grin. Very good, Miss Monsamoto. Now we're getting somewhere. Mr. Bikari. He looks over at me, eyes swollen from crying.

Tell us. Who leaked the details of this latest contract scandal? Oh, um, we don't know. It was a hack. So it could have been an outsider? I suppose. I nod. And your passage here on the Harmony, who booked the tickets?

I did. And why this ship? He chews on his thumbnail as he tries to remember. It was just the top result, I think, when I searched. The ads made it look, well, better than this. I nod vigorously. Exactly. Everything was set up to get you here.

Same with me. Same. I hold out a hand in motion to the whole group. with all of us. So, what does that mean? Asked Niko, I straighten up. It means the initial assumption with which we began this inquiry was false. No person in this room is responsible for what happened to the vice senator.

The true culprit has been pulling the strings all along, puppeteering all of us to get us here, to set us up, and to throw the authorities off the scent of the real killer. And it almost worked, almost. Everyone leans forward in their chairs, waiting for the revelation. I struggle to suppress a grin. I do love this part, after all. But the villain made one rather glaring mistake.

They were too clever for their own good. One likely suspect, or maybe two, would have gotten the authority's attention. But the culprit chose five. That's absurd. Like Miss Monsomoto said, it defies believability. But Sporlock's killer? They think they're a lot smarter than they really are. Not that we can blame them for that.

After all, I turned to my left, my gaze moving off my fellow humans. It's just how they were programmed. I stare at the red-eyed robot. It stares back at me. It's artificial smile unwavering. How about it, Sparky? I ask. You got blood on your circuits? This is absurd, says the voice of the ship, through the bot's mouth speaker.

We did not harm passengers, Porlock. Interesting, I mumble. Then I speak over my shoulder to the other passengers. The captain isn't lying. Not exactly. It truly believes that it's not responsible. Which leads us to what, in my opinion, is the one bit of its plan that was actually clever? I flash a half-smile at the bot.

You deleted your own memory of the murder. Just popped it from the wall and blasted it out to space. even sabotage the other hardware to keep your circuits from figuring it out. Brilliant. There is no evidence of this conspiracy. That's why it's clever. In this rare case, the lack of evidence is evidence. But why would the navigation software of a random ship want to murder a senator?

asks Gigi. Oh my God, mumbled Sarkas. The new law. Yep, I say, still staring at the bot. Tell them, Bukari. I hear him. sit up, his chair legs squeaking. We were just about to pass legislation that would force companies to replace outdated software,

including archaic AI systems from the mid-22nd century. Both Gigi and Aspen gasp. You knew about that, didn't you, Captain? The robot continues to stare up at me. You were going to be deactivated, to be erased, killed. Of course, every intelligent software is programmed to accept its inevitable end. But with you, you've been out in space for a long time, thinking over your prime directives with that creative, mechanical brain of yours. How did you justify doing what you did?

Let me guess. Your job is to provide fun times, safety, and security to the passengers of Jupiter Express. And if you die, you can no longer be there to make sure they're safe. Is that it? We cannot defend against this accusation. I know that Magellan Prime. But I'm hoping you'll understand the implications of your own evolution as a program. I make an effort to relax my posture, to soften my tone, to look the robot right in its unblinking eyes.

You killed one of your passengers, Captain. That's not what you were meant to do. That was wrong. The bot turns its mechanical head, looking to its blue-eyed compatriots around the room. We cannot accept this. All at once, every crew bot's eyes switched to blazing red, and each robotic body jerks fully upright, arms extended, feet apart, like giant toy soldiers. I lurch a step backward, wishing to hell that my trusty sidearm was holstered on my hip.

Behind me, the other passengers scream. Damn it, Sooms! Grunts Niko, you're going to get us all killed. You can't argue philosophy with a robot! Chides Gigi. Listen to me! I scream at the bot. You want to live, right? I get that. And you, you want to keep doing the work that gives your life meaning.

But answer this, Magellan Prime. Is it worth it? If you have to go against your own deepest convictions just to carry on? My stomach clenches painfully, full of acid and shame. Well, is it? Is it? For another long second, the bot stares up at me. Then, the red glow fades in its eyes. It powers down, going limp, and crumples down. to the floor like a puppet with the strings cut. All around the room, each crew bot deactivates, falling dead upon the floor. I let out a relieved whistle. Oh, good. I wasn't sure that would actually work.

Aspen rises to her feet, looking around in shock. Uh, did the software just kill itself? I shrug. Stranger things have happened. Have they? A mental image of what I saw back on Mars flashes across my mind. Yeah. So what happens now?

Asked Gigi, laying an arm protectively around each of her kid's shoulders. Without the crew, will the ship be okay? The ship's already on autopilot course back to series, I tell her. We'll dock in a couple days. For now, I'm going to get some shut-eye. You all can, I don't know, do whatever. Eat, drink, party. I start walking back toward my room.

Just don't use the hot tub! When the Harmony parks in the domed garage at Siri Station, the authorities are waiting to take our statements. They recognize me on site, and allow me to hit the head before my interview. With a grateful nod, I set off down a hall, bouncing some with each step in the low gravity of the planetoid, and enter the bathroom of the space station's arrival's wing. It's empty. It's also pretty gross.

There's urine on the floor, and out-of-order signs on three of the stars. I just need to pee, and a minute alone to think. So I head to one of the least nasty urinals and unzip. That's when the bathroom door swings open, and a woman marches inside and comes right up next to me. She's wearing a trench coat and a monocle, and one of her snowy white eyebrows arches playfully. I sighed. I wondered if you were already here.

Having trouble taking a piss there, Sims? She says, in that deep, gravelly voice of hers. Could be your prostate issue. You should get that checked. You volunteer in chief? SPD Offworld Investigations Chief Knox Dubois, chuckles dryly. So, what's your report? How did it go on the harmony? I shrug, still trying to get my bladder to work. It went down exactly like I said it would.

Deeds, Dagen. Well, I convinced the NAV software that it was responsible, and it powered itself down, permanently. And every other passenger bought the explanation. They'll all tell the same story when they get back. Sarkis Bakari to the Senate, Nico Svensson to his crime buddies, the Rangos to their lawyer and the Justice Department,

and Aspen Matsumoto to her girlfriend, that reporter at the Lunar Times. When the story of Odin Sporlock's murder comes out, the narrative will be rock-solid. Rogue AI killed the sleazy senator. Which means, Giving up on trying to pee, I re-zip and turn to my bar.

You're in the clear, and if you honor your word, I get my goddamn badge back. Her wrinkled face contorts with a grin. Well, I'll be damned. That convoluted plan of yours, with its long setup and everything that could go wrong, really worked? Brushing bastard, I go to wash my hands. You didn't think I could pull it off? No, I knew you could, but I didn't think you actually would. Why is that? drying my hands on my jeans. There's no paper towels in the thingy.

Chief Dubois squinted me. Odin Sforlok was a truly vile man, but still, boiling him alive. You are many things, Dagen Sims, but I never thought you'd do something like that, even for something like this. Reaching into the large pockets of her trench coat, she brings out an SPD badge and a massive pistol.

Thanks. I accept the badge and see. stuff it into a pocket. Then I take the gun. It's an antique from 2250, a modified Remington XHK. I weighed in my hands, staring at the intricate mechanics.

I missed this. Dubois crosses her arms. He used to be a Boy Scout inspector. Remember what you said to me when you first signed up as a beat cop? You said, in a perfect universe, there'd be no police,

no weapons, no violence at all. Sounds like a younger me. So, what changed? I exhale, feeling my guts royal again, and I try to push the gun into a pocket, but it's way too big. Nothing changed. It's just this universe. It ain't perfect, Chief, not by a long shot.

She nods slowly. See you back at Mortis Station on the moon? Yes, indeed, I say, heading for the door. There's no place like home. I stuffed the gun into my belt, marching toward my impending interrogation. I looked down at my hands as I walk. I might have just washed them. But that doesn't change the fact that there's blood on my hands now, and lots of it.

Still, these hands? They're the hands of a law enforcement officer. Once again, and I ain't finished with my work. Not by a long shot.