by Sharon Shinn
He headed directly to the offices of the warden who oversaw the vast, sprawling prison complex that was one of the main industries of Fortunata. His Moonchild insignia and his forceful manner got him all the way to the warden’s inner sanctum in something less than thirty minutes, but there he suffered his first serious check.
“Saberduce’s dead, all right,” said the warden, an older, gray-haired, hard-featured man who looked capable of some of the crimes his inmates had been imprisoned for. His name badge identified him as Rafe Klinski. “You can watch a tape of the execution, if you want, identify the body. We’re pretty thorough here on Fortunata, Lieutenant. We make sure we have the right man before we kill him.”
“I’m looking for people who might have been confederates of his,” Drake said. “Prison pals. Someone he might have confided in. How can I find those men?”
Klinski shook his head. “Don’t know if you can.”
Drake held on to his patience. “Guards from his cell block?” he suggested. “Men he shared quarters with? There must be someone I can talk to who might tell me something about him.”
“Lieutenant, we have ten million prisoners in this compound. Ten million. Cell blocks and friendly prison guards are a thing of the past. Our prisoners live what is almost a suburban lifestyle, in houses, in neighborhoods, in self-supporting communities. Nearly all supervision is done by mechanical overseers. We don’t have spies and stooges who come in and tell us what the prisoners are talking about and who they’re making friends with.”
“Perhaps I could interview some of the men who have been his—housemates?—over the years,” Drake said. “They could tell me more than you can.”
“They could, but they won’t. Saberduce—” The warden punched a few keys on his desk computer as if for emphasis, and the screen flickered to life. He gestured at it. “He was in Sector Five. That’s where we isolate the mass murderers, the serial rapists, the hard-core criminals. Everyone in Sector Five is scheduled for execution sooner or later. They don’t cooperate with friendly Moonchild investigators from Interfed—and they don’t get out of prison a few years later to do favors for their buddies inside.”
Drake doubted that Klinski was being deliberately obstructive, but he wasn’t finding the truth particularly helpful. “All right,” the Moonchild said. “Maybe I can get what I want another way. Let me see your records on this prisoner—copies of his correspondence, a list of the personal effects he left behind, anything else you might have handy.”
Klinski’s eyes narrowed; he was considering. “We have the documentation,” he said slowly, “but prisoners do have some right to privacy.”
“If Saberduce’s dead,” Drake said, “he won’t care much about his privacy anymore. And I’m trying to make sure no one else gets killed.”
“All right,” the warden decided somewhat reluctantly. “You can see the records. But only the film copies, not the actual documents.”
“Good enough,” Drake said briskly. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
The warden’s secretary led him to a private viewing room and brought in a box of visicubes. Drake reflected that he was getting to be quite good at this—a small room, a visiscreen, and hours spent poring over old records. Though these were nothing like the court records and crime reports he had conned on Semay. Saberduce had not had an extensive list of correspondents—all of them, apparently, off-world drug merchants with ties to corrupt planetary governments—and to most of them he had written the same thing. Get me out of here. Few of them had written back, and certainly none of them had been able to do what he requested.
Drake read through the records until hunger made him lightheaded. He turned off the visiscreen and hunted for the warden, who was nowhere in sight. “I need a list of all the inmates Saberduce shared quarters with since he arrived here,” Drake told Klinski’s secretary. The young man looked incredulous.
“All of them?” he said.
“I assume you have such information.”
“Yes, but—”
“Good. Get it ready for me. I’ll be back in an hour.”
It was closer to two hours before Drake returned, because there hadn’t been much in the way of fast-food emporiums near the entrance to the prison grounds. Back in the warden’s office, Drake picked up the list of names from the secretary, then returned to the viewing room to continue scanning the filmed records of Saberduce’s prison life. At the end of the last cube, he came across a real find, though he wasn’t sure it would give him any help solving the case.
The prison photographer had made a visual record of all the condemned man’s personal effects, and the camera had moved slowly over the items laid out on a long wooden table. Saberduce had had an impressive array of jewelry, a few books, and a cache of odd mementos from his intergalactic travels, including a sumptuous mask of fabric and feathers that Drake recognized as being from the planet Orleans.
Last, the camera paused on a small white-quartz pendant tied to a velvet ribbon. Drake jammed his finger on the Pause button and dialed up the magnification. The sculptor had been good at his craft. He had posed Diadeloro with her back to the viewer, looking over one shoulder and laughing. Caught in crystal, her profile looked clean and beautiful; the laugh, which Drake had never seen, gave her a girlish grace and charm. The etched hair glowed with its own light, as always. Drake put his hand to the screen as if to touch her face.
“Hard copy,” he said aloud, and the machine obligingly clunked into reproduction mode. The print wasn’t nearly as good as the screen version, which probably was far beneath the quality of the original, but Drake folded the paper carefully anyway and tucked it inside his pocket.
There was no more to learn from Saberduce’s papers. Crossing the room to a computer terminal against the other wall, Drake booted the console and tried to check current prison records against the list of names Klinski’s secretary had given him. Not surprisingly, he found his access blocked since he didn’t have proper clearance. He headed back out to the secretary’s office to ask for the password, which was handed over promptly enough. Turning to go, Drake paused and said, “One more thing. I want to see Saberduce’s personal effects.”
“You want—Why?”
“Because I want to. Have them brought to me here.”
“They can’t be released to you without the warden’s permission.”
“I don’t want them released to me. Well, I might. But I want to look at them now. Have them brought to me.” He hurried back inside the private room and shut the door before the secretary could think of a reasonable protest.
The list of Saberduce’s housemates was about forty names long and appeared to be arranged chronologically. Lots of moving around in Sector Five in three years. Drake seated himself at the computer, cleared security, and began methodically punching in names and reading the status reports.
As Klinski had told him, Guy’s companions for the final years of his life had not been ideal citizens. Their crimes were varied and bizarre, but usually heinous, and nearly all of these inmates were scheduled to die at the hands of the judiciary system. However, Drake was only halfway through the list before he discovered three who had been released from Sector Five to other branches of the prison complex, as their orders for execution had been overturned. He called up the photos of each of these three reprieved men—two black-haired, one redheaded—and checked their current status. Still in jail.
He was nearing the end of the the list when Klinski came in behind him. “My secretary tells me you want to see Saberduce’s personal effects.”
Drake didn’t even turn to look at him. “That’s right.”
“Sorry, then. They’re not here.”
Now Drake spun around. “What do you mean, they’re not here? You don’t keep them on the premises, or—” He stopped abruptly, and an uneasy premonition whispered at his ear.
The warden’s voice was faintly apologetic. “They
’ve been claimed.”
Drake came to his feet slowly. He had no idea what menace his face showed, but Klinski actually backed up a pace. “Claimed by whom? Claimed when?”
“Claimed yesterday, as a matter of fact. That’s when the interdiction ran out.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“A prisoner’s property is interdicted for two years after his execution, in case something connected with his case is still in litigation or under investigation. After the two years are up, the prisoner’s friends or family members can claim the property. Usually the prisoner leaves instructions specifying who should be allowed to take his things.”
“And did he?” Drake demanded. “Who claimed Saberduce’s stuff?”
“A man named Dapple. Eric Dapple.”
Drake caught up the long list of Saberduce’s roommates. There it was, a few names from the bottom. Eric Dapple. Quickly, Drake typed in the letters on the computer keyboard and hit the Seek button. Klinski spoke just as the information appeared on-screen.
“He was scheduled for execution,” the warden said. “But the sentence was reduced when he gave state’s evidence. And he was such a model prisoner from the time he left Sector Five—”
“That he was released six months ago,” Drake said. His voice sounded strained even to him; he was having trouble catching his breath. “Where did he go? Do you have any idea?”
“We have a program,” the warden said. “An arrangement with one of the shipping companies on Fortunata. Prisoners who have been released for good behavior work on the merchant cruisers for five years. They check in with us on a regular basis, of course, since technically they’re on probation. But the arrangement works well for everyone. The merchant companies get cheap labor. The felons establish a work record and, if they maintain it for five years, they can find work anywhere. And we have a chance to rehabilitate men who deserve a second chance.”
Of course. A laborer on a commercial freighter. That explained Dapple’s regular three-week schedule of slaughter. He was only on Semay every few weeks, when the cruiser made it to port in Madrid . . .
“What’s the name of the company? The one you have the arrangement with?” Drake asked, while his fingers were busy punching in the next request: all visuals. An image wavered into existence on the color monitor. Small, narrow face. Pale blond hair. A large five-pointed star tattooed on his left cheek. Nochestrella had been right.
“Fortunata Freightways,” Klinski said. “Owned by a man named Thelonious Reed.”
Reed. The name took Drake all the way back to his first visit to Fortunata. He had made the journey here as the sometime companion of a shipping magnate by that name. It was possible that his luck was finally in.
“Hard copy,” he said into the computer mike, and waited while the machine labored to meet his request. Drake folded the paper and came to his feet. Giving Klinski the briefest word of thanks, he strode from the room.
* * *
* * *
Thelonious Reed was anxious to help. He even seemed to remember Drake from that brief acquaintanceship four weeks back. “Yes, Dapple, Dapple, we should be able to track that easily enough,” the neat little man said, reaching for a sophisticated intercom device on his desk. “Suvie, my dear, I need you to look up some information for me. What ship has an Eric Dapple—that’s D-A-P-P-L-E—what ship has he been assigned to and where is it now? Thanks, love.” He switched off the mike and beamed at Drake.
“Thank you,” the Moonchild said. He found that he still was not eager to be intimate with this friendly capitalist, even though Reed was willingly doing him a huge favor. “You’re most kind.”
“Moonchildren keep the skies safe,” Reed said brightly. “Anything in my power, Lieutenant, anything at all. How long are you staying here on our lovely planet? May I offer you the hospitality of my home, or recommend an excellent hotel?”
“I doubt I’ll be here very long. Once I learn where Dapple is, I’ll probably follow him.”
“Alone? My good man—”
Drake smiled thinly. “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “I can handle him.”
“But he’s killed six people,” the merchant objected.
Drake discarded the first reply that came to his lips. I have killed my share as well. He said, “Not to mention whatever he did to get him sent to prison in the first place. Not to worry. I can handle him.”
“Do you think—” Reed began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in, come in!” he called.
A small, pretty woman entered, holding a memo pad and wearing a worried expression. “I don’t know how much this will help you, sir,” she said, addressing Reed but glancing at Drake.
“What is it? Where is he?” her employer asked.
“Well, he was signed up for the Acapulco,” she said.
Reed nodded and actually rubbed his hands together. “Yes, yes, she docked two days ago. And she was scheduled to leave this morning for Damascus, was she not? You’ll have no trouble catching up with him, Lieutenant Drake.”
“Yes, Mr. Reed, but—”
“Didn’t she go as scheduled?”
“Yes, sir, but this Mr. Dapple wasn’t aboard, sir.”
Drake was on his feet without realizing he had moved. He felt his bones catch fire within his skin.
“Not on board?” Reed said, mildly perturbed. “But did he—Why, I suppose he’s quit without giving notice, but that’s not very bright.”
“He went back to Semay,” Drake said in a hard voice.
“Yes, but don’t you see?” Reed said. “The man’s on probation. If he leaves without giving notice, it’s a very bad mark on his record. An ex-felon who can’t hold down a job—”
“He doesn’t want a job!” Drake shouted, and then tried to temper his fever and fury as the two others stared at him in dismay. “He’s going back to Semay. He’s got her picture, he can find her now with no trouble. He thinks she knows where the money is—”
“What money?” Reed said blankly.
Drake shook his head. “Never mind. I’ve got to get to Madrid, now.”
Reed consulted a floor-to-ceiling chart posted on one wall of his office. “Well, let’s see. The Deuteronomy is scheduled to lift off tomorrow morning, but of course it’s making a detour through Arison—you probably want to move a little more quickly than that. And the Homer is leaving the day after, a direct route—”
“I need a ship,” Drake said. “A one- or two-man interplanetary flier. Do you have one that I can borrow—or rent—whatever?”
Reed gazed at him in consternation. “You mean, something that you can fly yourself? From here to Semay?”
“Yes.”
“I—that is, I only have the spacegoing liners, and you couldn’t possibly fly one of those—and the small hovercraft I use for getting around Fortunata. I suppose you could rent a flier from one of the other shipping houses. Let me see, now, Archibald Creary owes me a little favor—”
He reached for his computer keyboard, but Drake was already halfway out the door. “Forget it,” he said over his shoulder. “But thank you!”
He left the building at a dead run, but that was stupid. A few blocks from Fortunata Freightways, he slowed to a fast walk, and kept an eye out for the overhead aircabs. Five minutes later he spotted one cruising low to the ground, looking for passengers, and he hailed it with a peremptory wave of his hand. He was inside almost before the vehicle had touched down.
“To the Moonbase,” he said, “and make it fast.”
* * *
* * *
It was too much to say that Fortunata’s Moonbase commander was delighted to fulfill Drake’s request, but Drake had learned years ago that Sayos could pretty much get what they wanted, when they wanted, and he was willing to push that prerogative to the limit. It was with relatively good grace that the young base commander, Captain Jessica Rolf, g
ave Drake the keys to a two-man interplanetary flier.
“AJK Blue Devil,” she said, walking Drake out to the airstrip. It was an hour or so before sunset, and the silver ships preened in the golden light. “Ever fly one? The AJK is one of the new models.”
“Flown every other Blue Devil they ever made,” Drake said, by habit running his hand over the silky gildore hull of the slim craft. He was in a fearful hurry, but it was worth five minutes to learn from Rolf what she knew about the flier. “Can’t be much different.”
“Faster, cleaner, smarter,” she said.
“Can I take it into interstel solo?”
“You could,” she said, “but not between here and Semay. You don’t have enough room to maneuver.”
He nodded, believing her. “How long will it take me?”
“Thirty hours minimum. You’re in luck, though—you’ve got the axis. You can take off straight for Semay. Your guy probably had to hang around several hours to get into position.”
“My guy probably can’t fly his own ship, and wouldn’t have the money to rent one if he could,” Drake replied. “He’s on a commercial liner.”
“Maybe you’ll beat him.”
Drake shook his head. “He took off yesterday sometime. He’s way ahead of me.”
“But the liners are slow. You won’t be too far behind.”
“Far enough. Thanks, Captain. I’ll mention you in my report.”
She grinned at him. She was quite young to be a captain, maybe even younger than he was, but she didn’t look like anybody’s pushover. “Always glad to help a Sayo,” she said.
Drake grinned back as he swung himself on board. “Always glad to find a commander who feels that way.”
