Seize What's Held Dear

by Karl K Gallagher

  “Top right, a view of Station Fourteen from a passing shuttle.” Six docking cylinders thrust out from the center of the station. Four modified container ships clung to one. The video was cropped to center them.

  “Bottom right, telemetry from station and ships.” An incomprehensible grid of numbers and acronyms.

  “Bottom left, the spaceport at Llanberis.” The typical concrete island by a glass pyramid.

  “The event began at 22:14:47. The station charging lines for all four carriers went from trickle to maximum. As their power banks were being kept at full rated charge for operational readiness, in four minutes they all exceeded the safe charge limit. This should have triggered automatic disconnects on both sides. The watchstander on Humpback signaled the station controller, telling them he couldn’t stop the overcharge. The controller shut down the feed to Humpback. A half minute later he contacted the watch standers on the other three carriers, asking if their charging feeds should also be cut.

  “That was too late.”

  The corridor view filled with balls of flame, then showed only, ‘SIGNAL LOST.’ The exterior view of the station showed the carriers rupturing at the stern. Plumes of vapor sprang from the station core and ships on the other arms as debris punched holes in them.

  “The last shuttle from the station landed at Llanberis spaceport at 22:27. Four passengers left immediately. The others were regular station or ship crew and vouch for each other. The four missing were strangers.”

  “Any imagery of them?” asked Admiral Song.

  The briefer shook his head. “All we have is some names on the sign-in roster, apparently fake. The locals did a swell job of smashing all the Censorate security cameras.”

  “Why the hell haven’t we replaced them?” groused the admiral.

  Marcus realized he was the only representative of the Provisional Government there. “We’re avoiding the control mechanisms the Censorate used. Reestablishing security is being left for the permanent government.”

  “Eh.” Song turned back to the briefer. “Go on.”

  Another officer with engineer badges stepped forward. “Absolutely sabotage, sir. We haven’t had time to do physical tests, but the simulation that came closest to the telemetry was using copper jumpers to by-pass the disconnects on both sides. Would’ve been ten minutes work for each one by someone who knew what they were doing.”

  “Right. Suspects?”

  An Intelligence officer answered. “None of the Censorate infiltrators we’ve been monitoring have connections to the station or Llanberis. Our assessment is that an agent we missed hired locals for the job.”

  “You have nothing?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  That drew a “hmph” from the admiral. He turned to Marcus. “Wing Leader, all those plans for using your fighters as an offensive force just got shitcanned. When is the fifth carrier going to be ready?”

  “The final tests will be done in two weeks, sir,” said Marcus. “Is there any chance we can requisition another one?”

  Song shook his head. “There’s none to spare. I’ll send a request to Fiera. Until then we’re back to pick up and drop off.”

  Marcus nodded. He wasn’t looking forward to sitting in his fighter while waiting for the carrier to return with another wing. But it was better than missing the battle.

  The admiral looked at Wynny. “Mrs. Landry, we need to use local methods to investigate this crime. Would you be willing to take on this case? And what would your fee be?”

  Marcus suppressed a smirk. All his efforts to find Wynny a job as an accountant had failed. But being the only death creditor Fierans were comfortable with was paying her well.

  She’d kept her fedora on her lap during the meeting. Now Wynny placed the battered hat on her head. “Traditionally a death creditor receives a tenth of the bloodprice and other compensation. Given the scale of this atrocity—”

  Wynny waved at the screen to indicate the bloodprice of seven skilled technicians, the value of four carriers, dozens of injured on the station and other ships, and all the other damage.

  “—the whole assets of the liable clan would be confiscated.”

  ***

  The secret society leader who’d helped Wynny with her first investigation was now publicly boasting of his anti-Censorate deeds. She still called him ‘Mr. Anonymous.’ It reminded her not to trust him too much.

  He’d heard of the sabotage, of course. It was the biggest news since the Censorate was kicked off the planet. His contacts were already passing along gossip and speculation.

  “That’s good,” Wynny told him. “What I’d like you to also do is find which clans had no members in any secret society.”

  Her tablet went silent as Mr. Anonymous thought. “Yes, we can do that. We may want that list for other reasons.”

  “Thank you.” Wynny’s next call was to Nyrath. She needed volunteers to sort through the tsunami of accusations pouring into her office. Every Corwynti with a grudge against a neighbor was accusing him of sabotage. The history conspirators were used to dealing with conflicting information.

  ***

  Llanberis was on the equator, making it warm even by Corwynt’s standards. Rows of fans kept a strong breeze moving through the city. It helped. Wynny still sweated in the heat. She’d worn her lightest dress, but the death creditor hat was a hot stone on top of her head. She kept wiping sweat from her face.

  The vendor Mr. Anonymous’ friends had found sold cheap jewelry, the sort young men gave to girls they were courting. Her booth was two racks, taller than she was, making a V. She sat in the opening of the V, watching for customers. She was nearly as old as Wynny’s grandmother. She wore some of her wares—polished brass earrings, seashell brooches at each collarbone, and two necklaces, a shiny copper chain and a pendant studded with fake jewels.

  “You’re the death creditor, eh?” said the old woman. “You’re young for it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Wynny respectfully. “The hat came to me. I didn’t go looking.”

  That earned her a nod. Encouragement enough to ask, “Have you had trouble with criminals?”

  “Wouldn’t call them criminals. Just boys who want a piece and don’t have the patience to wait for their next allowance.”

  “That’s why the cameras?”

  There was a pair of them at each top corner of the racks.

  “Aye.” The vendor grinned, revealing jagged teeth.

  Wynny ran her tongue over her own teeth, treated by a Fieran dentist to last her lifetime.

  “Elders will pay for the piece when they see a picture of their boy lifting it,” said the old woman. “Pay extra for me to not show the picture to the girl he gave it to. And twice that to not tell anyone.”

  “Profitable.”

  “Oh, aye. I’ve made more credits falling asleep in this chair than I have awake.”

  “How long do you keep the recordings?” Wynny kept her voice calm but her guts tightened. If they were overwritten, she had nothing but hearsay from Mr. Anonymous’ friends to say where the saboteurs went.

  “Oh, weeks and weeks. Never know when someone wants to know if a spouse was here or some other nonsense. They pay well.”

  Wynny reached for her purse.

  The vendor stopped her. “This about the militia ships?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll have it free. I don’t want the Censies back more than anyone else on first level.”

  The jewelry booth was close by the tunnels to the spaceport. A volunteer had timed the walk from the shuttle’s landing pad to this intersection. They knew exactly which times to check on the cameras.

  Wynny knew what she was looking for. Four men in unstained laborer’s clothes, walking together. None of the witnesses who’d noticed them were willing to testify, or even meet with the death creditor. Fear of Censorial agents was everywhere. Once she’d made arrests, some would talk, but not while the perpetrators were loose.

  “There t
hey are,” said Wynny. She replayed the moments when they were visible.

  “In a hurry, they were,” said the vendor. “Looks like they’re headed for the escalator to second level.”

  Wynny looked toward the next ardal. “I think you’re right. Will you testify that you gave me this imagery?”

  The vendor was looking at the screen. The men’s clothes were a mix of drab green, blue, and brown. The kind picked to hide stains and rips. All were perfectly clean. The shortest was looking toward the camera. His forehead was wrinkled, though the worry lines stopped before the bare scalp. His hairline began at the top of his head.

  “I’ll say you threatened me, and I surrendered them under protest.”

  “All right. I can bribe you instead, if you like.”

  The old woman laughed. “The Censies forgive fear more than greed. Good hunting, death creditor.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother.”

  ***

  With pictures of the suspects, Mr. Anonymous’ volunteers tracked them to a gravliner platform on the third level. Scheduled flights took passengers to nearby cities. Wynny followed up the lead in person. It was only evidence if the death creditor saw it.

  She broke into open laughter when the gate clerk discovered the men charged their flight to their clan.

  ***

  Clan Tolog was on the list of clans with no members in any secret society. They lived on the fifth level of Rhuddlan, one level below the top. Before the Fierans arrived, they’d made a good living maintaining and upgrading the power systems of Censorate spacecraft. Now they did odd jobs for anyone in orbit who needed them.

  Interviews with grocers, tailors, and other suppliers to Clan Tolog revealed their spending had dipped after liberation but was now slightly higher than before.

  Rhuddlan locals identified the balding man in the video clip as Aled Tolog. The other three weren’t seen well enough for anyone to identify them.

  Volunteers willing to be rough were gathered. Spotters wandered the walks of the fifth level ardal, watching for Aled to leave his clanhome.

  More spotters were needed the second day. Mr. Anonymous wanted fresh faces to keep Clan Tolog from noticing they were being watched.

  Aled set out on an errand the third day. The rough men scrambled to the escalators. Wynny rode in a liftvan, listening to Mr. Anonymous talk to his teams.

  “Purple shirt, just walked past a tree in a pot? I see him. I see both pairs closing, doesn’t look like he sees you.”

  He turned to the driver. “Go to pick up at fourteen.”

  Wynny’s stomach protested as the liftvan plunged and yawed to present its open rear doors to the ardal.

  A screaming Aled Tolog flew into the van, landing hard on the floor.

  The two men who’d thrown him jumped in after and slammed the doors.

  Aled looked around in confusion. He’d expected to be falling two hundred feet to the bedrock. He hadn’t seen the liftvan before the rough men picked him up and tossed him.

  “Hello, Aled Tolog,” said Wynny. “I am the death creditor. You’re going to answer some questions.”

  “You can’t—this is kidnapping!” protested Aled.

  Wynny replied, “If you’re innocent, I will pay Clan Tolog the bloodprice for kidnapping and any other damage that happens to you.”

  The rough men bore the grins of thugs who knew the harm they might do would be paid for by others. Wynny hoped they were acting.

  “We’re in place,” announced the driver.

  The rough men opened the back doors. They’d made a proper approach to this ardal. The railing folded out so they could walk from the liftvan into the ardal.

  “If you’ll get the doors, gentlemen,” said Wynny. She and Mr. Anonymous hauled Aled to his feet and frog-marched him out.

  “Where are you taking—oh,” said the prisoner.

  The door was under the words ‘CENSORIAL SECURITY.’ The dagger dripping blood logo was in color above them. Aled whimpered as they went through the door.

  The offices were empty, waiting for a permanent planetary government to decide what to do with them. Wynny had used the time waiting for Aled to find who was guarding them against squatters, obtain their cooperation, and locate what she wanted.

  The only obstacle on the way was a receptionist desk. Security wasn’t set up to repel violent visitors. They made the visits.

  “Here we go,” said Wynny. She pulled open the door labeled ‘INTERROGATION 3.’ A hand on Aled’s shoulder sent him through it.

  She gave the other men a smile. “Please be patient.”

  Wynny closed the door behind her.

  Aled was looking about, trying to figure out the pipes and hoses and other things suspended from the ceiling.

  “Sit down,” said Wynny, pointing at one of the comfortable office chairs around the perimeter of the room.

  He nervously obeyed.

  She hopped up to sit on the metal table in the center. It was long enough to lie down on. A dozen adjustable straps could keep her in place if she did.

  Aled shrank down in the chair as she stared at him.

  “What’s the closest you’ve ever come to drowning?” Wynny asked.

  “Huh?”

  She repeated the question.

  “Um . . . I was ten, swimming by the spaceport. An older cousin held me down until I panicked.”

  “That’s typical. We teach even top-level children to swim. Wouldn’t want them to drown.”

  He flinched again at the word. ‘Drown’ was a harsh word to Corwyntis. Water deaths were usually described with elaborate euphemisms.

  “The Censies invented a torture just for Corwyntis. You’re held down on this table. They stretch some plastic over your face.”

  She pointed at a four clawed arm, currently stowed under the table.

  “Then they pour seawater over your face.”

  She reached up to tap a hose hanging over her head.

  “It feels like you’re immersed. All the water is going to go through your nose into your lungs and drown you. It doesn’t. Just runs off the plastic. But no matter how many times it happens to you, your body thinks you’re going to die.”

  Wynny stopped there.

  The silence was a relief to Aled at first. She let it stretch on. Aled began to fidget. She watched and waited.

  “I guess anyone but a death creditor would break under that,” he said.

  “Oh, they broke me,” she said flatly. “I was strapped to a table just like this one. They poured water over me again and again. I couldn’t resist. I answered all their questions. I even betrayed my own father. I confessed his membership in a secret society. I told them when he’d been gone for meetings.”

  By the end of that Aled’s arms were across his chest, shoulders almost to his ears. His knees were high enough for his shoes to touch the seat.

  “There was a secret I didn’t tell them. It wasn’t that I had the strength to keep it from them. They just didn’t ask the right question. I babbled about my father and cousins and people who’d helped me. I even betrayed someone who’d saved my life. If they’d asked the right question they would have had that secret too.”

  Time for silence again.

  It took longer for him to talk this time. That was all right. She wasn’t in a hurry.

  The fidgeting made Aled unwind his limbs. The arms were still crossed, but the feet touched the floor again.

  Aled’s eyes wandered. It didn’t help him. He could meet Wynny’s gaze, or he could look at torture equipment.

  Twisting fingers joined tapping toes.

  “I can’t tell you any secrets!” Aled burst out. “I don’t know any. I’m an innocent man!”

  “Very well. Have you been working more hours a week this year than last year?”

  He looked at the large drain grate under the head of the table.

  “We’re still making connections with the Fierans. They have plenty of technicians of their own. I’m working a decent amount. Just
not as much as last year.”

  “Yet your clan is spending more than they used to. Where is the money coming from?”

  Shoulders hunched. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not one of the Elders.”

  “The grocer said you’ve been ordering enough sea-taters to feed the whole clan several days a week. How is Clan Tolog affording that?”

  “Everybody eats sea-taters if they can. They’re delicious fried.”

  “The rate the Concord Navy reported paying you for a repair job is only two thirds of what Censorate records say you were paid last year.”

  He turned his head away to look at the five-hundred-gallon tank in the corner. His fingers were twisting again.

  “You were seen on the Station Fourteen shuttle on the Ninth. No one remembers hiring Clan Tolog for a job there. How much were you paid to go there?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Wynny went with silence again. It had been working on him.

  The problem with driving him into a corner was he might break in different ways. If he talked, perfect. If he ran out the door Mr. Anonymous and his thugs would carry him back in and strap him to the table. If he attacked . . . her plan was to jump over the table and pull the knife she had up her sleeve.

  Mr. Anonymous was listening through the recording system. They’d agreed on specific keywords for him to come in. He’d insisted on a scream counting as a keyword. Maybe he felt guilty over nearly getting her killed in her first case.

  “It wasn’t about the money.” Aled’s voice was so low she had to strain to make it out.

  She matched his tone. “What was it about?”

  “I can’t say.”

  Wynny said firmly, “You can say. And you will. One way or the other, you will tell me.” Pause. “I know which question to ask now.”

  He shuddered. “I can’t believe you’d do that—that horrible thing to me.”

  “How much water do I have to pour over you to make you believe? We can switch places right now.”

  Aled squeezed his eyes shut. A tear ran down from the right one.

  She waited.