by Scott Sigler
She looked at Froese. “Me? Why me?”
Froese laced his fingers together again. “You’ll see when you agree to take the story.”
He had said when, not if. He was so sure of himself. Was the lead that good?
“Froese, you run the most powerful entertainment organization in the history of civilization. You’ve got more resources than I have, so why not track the lead yourself?”
He sneered and pointed a finger at her. “Because it was your incompetent reporting that has fans throwing garbage! There were riots in Virilliville, Davenport! Sentients died because of your shoddy work. You broke this, so you fix it!”
She stared, shocked. The little Human’s chest heaved and his eyes were wide with fury. He cleared his throat, gathered himself and leaned back.
Yes, there were riots. Yes, sentients had died, but as morbid as it was to say, they were just Sklorno — that species would riot if the wind blew funny, and they killed and ate each other constantly. She wasn’t responsible for any cultural fallout from a story.
Unless … unless she really was wrong. And if so, then she was responsible for that fallout.
“I’ll look at the lead, then decide,” she said.
Froese waved a hand in annoyance. “You’ll take the story, Davenport. Trust me on that. You got the Ju Tweedy part of the story wrong. He didn’t kill McDermot, and therefore, Barnes and the Krakens committed no crime when they extricated Ju from OS1. In fact, they saved his life. They’re heroes.”
Heroes who had illegally aided and abetted the prime suspect in a murder? She wasn’t buying that.
Froese leaned his elbows on the desktop. “If you got that wrong, then you probably got the information on Barnes wrong as well. So I’ll ask you again — who was your source on Barnes’s dealings with the To Pirates?”
She shook her head. Journalism had changed much over a thousand years of Human history, but one thing had remained as constant as the sun — if you wanted people to trust you, you never, ever gave up a source.
“The article says it all,” she said, reaching out a manicured blue fingernail to flick through the holo image. “I stand by my story.”
“Gredok the Splithead disagrees,” Froese said. “He has steadfastly denied your story and stood up for his player. He has called you a liar.”
Yolanda ground her teeth. Gredok’s public flogging of her and her reporting were a constant source of anger and frustration — because Gredok himself was the source. He gave her information on Barnes, then when the story turned around, he came out and said that information was a lie. Yolanda was trapped in her own code: she couldn’t reveal a confidential source. If she did, future sources wouldn’t trust her — Gredok knew that and had played her. Why he had played her, she still didn’t know; the information he gave her had been true, verified by other, unrelated sources — so if he’d given her actual fact, why did he publicly call her a liar?
She lifted her chin. “I can’t make a comment about that. As I said before and will say again, I stand by my story, and I will not reveal my sources. Now, are you going to give me this supposed lead or not?”
Froese stared at her, then turned to Tarat and nodded.
Tarat reached into a pocket and offered her a tiny message cube.
“The cube has two pieces of information. The first is the name of a person who lives on OS1. The second is my contact information. My permanent residence is on OS1, and also the Galaxy’s Greatest Sports Show will be there for the Week Four game between the To Pirates and the Orbiting Death. I cannot help you with the story, but if you need assistance with anything else, please feel free to contact me.”
She took the cube. “Yeah, like I’d ever need help from you.”
She lowered the cube into her lap and pressed the sides to activate it. A single name appeared in the air just above the cube. She read it twice, then a third time. She shut the cube off and looked up.
“You’re right,” she said to Froese. “I will take the story.”
“On one condition,” he said.
She huffed. “Now you give me a condition?”
“Yes, now. The condition is that if you want the story, I would like Whykor to accompany you.”
“I work alone.”
He shook his head. “Not this time. He has a certain skill that you will likely find helpful. To make this more palatable, Whykor has a GFL expense account. The league will pay for this endeavor instead of Galaxy Sports Magazine.”
That could be a conflict of interest, but only if Whykor tried to steer the story in a particular direction. If Yolanda reported facts, it didn’t matter who paid for what.
She looked at the message cube again — it was off, but the name still flashed in her mind.
“All right,” she said and looked up at the Commissioner. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Of course, I do,” Froese said. “The Regulator will arrive at OS1 later tonight. Whykor will take a shuttle down, as he is responsible for checking security at Beefeater Gin Stadium for this week’s Orbiting Death game against the To Pirates. You will ride in that shuttle and begin immediately. Then you are on your own, as I must take the Regulator elsewhere for league business.”
Leiba walked to the door and held it open for her. The formalities were over, apparently. She stood and walked into the hallway where her new partner was waiting.
“Whykor the Aware, reporter’s assistant, I presume?”
His eye flooded with bright yellow. “Miss Davenport, I already took the liberty of booking us lodging on OS1. I hope this is acceptable.”
“I also need a live uplink to the local Galaxy Sports Magazine servers. Can you take care of that for me?”
“Of course,” he said.
Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a little help after all.
“Let’s go,” she said, and they walked down the hall together.
• • •
At least the moo goo gai pan was good.
There was little enjoyable about Orbital Station One, even less about the planetoid’s capital city of Madderch, but one bite of the signature dish from Chucky Chong’s League-Style House of Chow could almost make you forget about the traffic, the dirt and the trash, the bums and the mesh addicts that filled the streets. At least for a little while.
“Miss Davenport, I don’t understand.” Whykor hadn’t touched his plate. He watched Yolanda eating lunch and seemed impatient for her to finish. “Why are we not taking immediate advantage of the lead?”
Yolanda was amused that he was already using the word we. Workers adapted to new jobs faster than anyone. She sipped her tea. “I don’t want to rush into anything unprepared.”
“But I already checked the stadium security,” he said. “That took half a day, so it is difficult to see how we are rushing into things, no matter what your definition of that word. And you also have not told me what Tarat’s message cube says.”
Well, this one was impatient. “I know you want to get started, Whykor, but did you know we’re being followed?” She put a chopstick flat on the table, pointing it at a Quyth Warrior sitting two tables away.
Whykor picked up the hint immediately. He waited a moment, then turned in his seat as the Harrah restaurant owner floated by carrying a tray full of food. Whykor briefly stared at the red-shelled Warrior, then again turned to face Yolanda.
“If you are referring to that reddish-shelled Quyth Warrior a few tables over, his name is Marik the Covetous. I have seen him before in the company of Gredok the Splithead.”
“You’ve seen him before? When?”
“I believe it was three seasons ago, 2682, Week Three of the Tier Two regular season, EA&M Stadium, halftime of a game between the Whitok Pioneers and the Ionath Krakens. The Commissioner paid a visit to Gredok the Splithead. Marik was one of the bodyguards present. The Pioneers won 35-10.”
She stared at the Worker, stared until his cornea turned a dark green. “Did I say something wrong, Miss Davenport?”
“No,” she said. “No, it’s just … you rattled that off like it had happened yesterday and you’d taken notes.”
“I have an excellent memory,” he said. “That is why the Commissioner employs me. I remember every sentient that visits him. When he travels, I stay close to him so that I can quietly tell him the name of sentients he talks to.”
A Quyth Worker with an eidetic memory? That would prove useful to her, but also to Froese when Whykor returned to his employer. No wonder the Commissioner had insisted Whykor come along. Yolanda would have to be very careful about what she said.
She could worry about that later. For now, she had a bigger problem — an associate of Gredok the Splithead was following her.
“I wonder what Gredok wants?” she said quietly. “He’s already attacking me in public about the article, telling anyone who will listen that I’m lying about Tweedy, the murder and Barnes’ illegal association with the Pirates.” She paused, trying to wrap her head around the irony of a confidential source calling her a liar for the very information he provided.
“Perhaps you are wrong about Barnes,” Whykor said.
“I’m not.”
“You have already admitted the witnesses to the Tweedy case could be incorrect.”
“Oh, did I?” An eidetic memory and an overactive imagination could be a bad combination. “And when, little Worker, did I admit that?”
“Simply by being here,” he said. “If you didn’t think there was a possibility they could be incorrect, you wouldn’t be wasting your time. Yolanda Davenport doesn’t waste her time.”
She frowned and looked at her hands. He had a point. Her story had told the galaxy that Ju Tweedy was a murderer. She hadn’t said it verbatim, she had just reported the facts, but there was no hiding the way she’d framed those facts. If she’d been wrong about Ju, she could have been wrong about Quentin. Or, worse than being wrong, she’d been manipulated. Manipulated by Gredok the Splithead.
But all of that was a big stretch — she’d been meticulous with her investigation of the Grace McDermot murder.
“Whykor, I talked to witnesses who saw Ju fleeing the murder scene. I spoke to the detectives investigating the case.”
“You yourself said the OS1 police are corrupt.”
She shook her head. “Not these cops. Joey Clark and Regat the Smooth are as solid as they come.”
Whykor pushed his food around his plate. Some kind of stir-fried insect — disgusting.
“Miss Davenport, will you tell me about the lead? I admit my curiosity has been overwhelming since Tarat met privately with the Commissioner, then the Commissioner told me to arrange your meeting with him.”
Curiosity, impatience … Whykor had some traits in common with her. Reporter’s traits. More importantly, when he wanted to know something, he came out and asked.
“Let’s test that memory of yours,” she said. “Do you know the name Miriam Connor?”
“Miriam Connor, retired fullback, three seasons with the Orbiting Death, number 37, played until she lost her arm five years ago on a legal hit from Ciudad Juarez of the To Pirates. Black hair, very black skin. After retiring from football, she worked as a freelance bodyguard for some years. I believe she is now working as an architect.”
Yolanda smiled. “Wow, that’s pretty impressive.”
“Thank you, Miss Davenport.”
“Here’s what you don’t know. For her first year out of football, she was my bodyguard.”
“That I did not know,” Whykor said. “I see why Commissioner Froese was so confident you would take this case.”
She nodded. It had been early in Yolanda’s career, right after the big break that put her on the Galaxy Sports staff. Not content with the puff pieces she’d been hired to write, Yolanda immediately started reporting on the darker side of the GFL. That meant covering the crime lords. Crime lords did not like the kind of attention she brought to them. She’d hired Miriam to defend against the constant intimidation by gangland heavies. After a couple of years, however, Yolanda gained her footing and built up a reputation that protected her from casual harassment. Yolanda had come into her own. She and Miriam parted ways. Miriam didn’t mind; the HeavyG woman had wanted to finally hang up her brass knuckles and follow her true love — the study of Quyth architecture.
“She still lives on OS1,” Yolanda said. “I don’t want this Marik to know where we’re going, so step outside and arrange a meeting with Miriam. Tell her I am coming for a visit and to meet me at her flat tomorrow at midday.”
“Shall I tell Miss Connor what this meeting is regarding?”
“No,” Yolanda said. “Just tell her it’s a social call. I have no idea what her connection is to this story, so I want to catch her off guard.”
“Yes, Miss Davenport. But what about Marik?”
“As soon as you leave, my guess is he’ll come talk to me.”
“You will be alone,” Whykor said. “It will be dangerous.”
Yolanda thought briefly of mentioning that a Worker could do little to protect her against a Warrior, but she kept that to herself.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ve been handling his kind for years. Go.”
Without a word, Whykor got up and made his way out the door of Chucky Chong’s. As if on cue, the Warrior stood and walked over to her. Yolanda casually touched her bracelet, activating the recorder and the live uplink.
His dark-red carapace had the shade of an overripe apple. His one eye looked clear, showing the thousands of small optical discs lining the cone behind his cornea.
“Yolanda Davenport?”
She looked up in feigned surprise. “Hi there! You know, it’s so wonderful to meet a fan. Now, don’t be bashful, please, have a seat. Can I sign something for you?”
The Quyth blinked at her. “I'm Marik the Covetous. I am not here for an autograph.”
She cocked her head. “No, I suppose you aren’t. What can I do for Gredok the Splithead?”
He paused. “You know that Gredok is my shamakath?”
“Of course, I do. What would the mighty Gredok want from this lowly reporter?”
Marik shifted his bulky body. “He wants to meet with you.”
Yolanda pulled her messageboard from her satchel and made a big show of checking her notes. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I’m much too busy to be smeared in public in the next week. How’s next month?”
His eye swirled with black and red. “This is not a social invitation.”
She frowned and stood up eyes-to-eye with the Quyth. “So it’s a threat? See, Marik, the last time I met privately with Gredok, he used it as an opportunity to smear my name. I will not come with you, but you can tell him that I’m not at all happy about his modification to our agreement.”
“One does not threaten Gredok.”
“I do,” she said. Marik went to reach for her, but she stepped forward, the motion surprising him and stopping him — people rarely stepped into the reach of a Quyth Warrior.
“Listen to me, Marik the Covetous. Every moment of my life is uploaded to a remote server. If I happen to suddenly disappear, people will know who I was with last and what was said.” She spoke very clearly now. “And you, Marik the Covetous, here on behalf of Gredok the Splithead, are getting a bit too threatening for my tastes.”
His eye turned black. “You’re bluffing.”
She shrugged. “Only one way to find out, big fella.”
Whykor re-entered the room. He paused when he saw Yolanda and Marik, then approached them with a deferential attitude. “Mistress, the call has been made.”
“Good work, Whykor. Thank you.” She stepped back from Marik, keeping her eyes locked with his.
Marik stared at her for a moment longer, then turned and walked out of the restaurant.
“Goon,” she muttered, taking a deep breath to quiet her rolling stomach. “Man, I shouldn’t have eaten so much moo goo gai pan.”
“I wouldn’t have eaten any of it,” Whykor said.
“Solidified plant paste? It looks vile. Do you think Marik will leave you alone?”
She shrugged. “Depends on how important it is for him to take me to Gredok, if Gredok is even here, which I doubt. Gredok and Anna Villani aren’t at war, but since he stole Ju away from OS1, they sure aren’t drinking buddies. If Marik gets an order to bring me no matter what, he’ll try it.”
“You should not anger the Warriors,” said Whykor, his voice shaking. “A Quyth Warrior could kill you in an instant. And with Gredok protecting him … ”
“Do you think I don’t know the strength of the Warrior caste? I watch sentients die on the field every season due to them. I see sentients die on the streets when it’s not football season. I’m not stupid, Whykor — but my choices are either stand up to them or have them walk all over me. Risks are part of the job. I’m more useful to the GFL alive, and more dangerous dead. Now, did you get in touch with Miriam?”
Whykor had. That gave her plenty of time to lose Marik or any other tail, find a new hotel and check in under false names. Tomorrow, if all went well, she could go see Miriam without anyone following them.
Yolanda just hoped that Tarat’s information was wrong and that her old friend wasn’t actually involved with the murder of Grace McDermot.
• • •
At the street level, the city of Madderch was a stinking, garbage-filled cesspool. If you could find a decent view, however, the city beauty could steal your breath away.
Madderch sat buried deep beneath the surface of Orbital Station One. The city of fifty million sat beneath a massive, irregular dome encrusted with the living blue crystal that also made up most of the buildings, the streets and the planet’s very crust. Artificial suns burned in the cavern high above, a cavern lined with constantly growing blue crystals that curved in on themselves or reached out like ivy to cling to and merge with other crystal outcroppings.
The crystal never stopped growing, even in the buildings and the streets. She’d heard that over a million sentients were employed to constantly cut and trim the crystal growths. A strike by the Sanitation & Maintenance Worker Union some years back had come close to destroying many of Madderch’s tallest buildings as the crystal grew out of control. The city government had played hardball for a week, but when a dome wall outcropping reached a building and merged with it, the building grew wild and was a solid piece of crystal days later, and the government quickly settled and gave the union a favorable new contract.
