by Piers Platt
“No,” Beauceron said. “Not from a conventional explosion, at least. The fragments are too small.”
“So what causes metal fragments that small?” she asked.
“That’s classified.”
Atalia put her hands on her hips. “You can just walk back to the spaceport, if that’s how it’s gonna be.”
Beauceron smiled, until he realized she was being serious. “I’m going to tell you, don’t worry.” He put his phone away. “I believe these explosions were caused by a high energy weapon prototype, developed in a research lab here on New Liberia. The device allows you to designate an object, any object, and then it teleports energy into the object, from a distance. At a certain point, the object can’t contain the energy anymore, and it explodes.”
Atalia winced. “That sounds like an ideal terror weapon.”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Beauceron agreed. “And combining it with the accuracy and standoff capabilities of PKDs …” he trailed off.
“It’s a doomsday weapon,” Atalia said, realization dawning on her face. “This was just a test site. They just invented a new weapon of mass destruction, and proved that it works.”
Beauceron nodded. “Now you see why it was classified.”
“This prototype – the Guild designed it?” Atalia asked.
“No,” Beauceron corrected. “Paisen Oryx – Contractor 339 – stole the plans to it, from a research lab here on New Liberia, before selling them to a third party.”
“Well, that gives us three possibilities for who’s responsible for this: the R&D lab, whoever bought those plans … or your friend. And I’m leaning toward your friend.”
“I’m afraid you may be right,” Martin agreed.
Atalia counted on her fingers. “She’s familiar with the planet. She has the device and has used it already. She knows how to operate PKDs. Martin, she’s gotta be the prime suspect. Her and 621.”
Beauceron sighed. “I know. But they promised me they would destroy the weapon after exposing the Guild.”
“Oh, well if they promised, I’m sure they must have,” Atalia said, sarcastically.
“Before today, I believed they had,” Beauceron said. “Even if they didn’t destroy it, I don’t know what would have possessed them to use it again.”
Atalia shrugged. “Those two John Does in the truck tried to blackmail them for their billions, so your pals torched them for all the world to see. Or there was something hidden in the factory that would have allowed us to find them.”
“Neither of those seem likely,” Beauceron said, unconvinced. “Either way, we need to report this in.” He pulled out his holophone and dialed. Atalia gestured at the car and Beauceron nodded, following her and taking his seat. She concentrated on flying while he made his report.
He finished his conversation as they were nearing the city.
“Well?” Atalia asked.
“They’re very concerned,” Beauceron replied.
“They should be,” Atalia said.
“They said I should ‘follow all leads on the device.’ ”
“Good luck with that,” Atalia snorted. “You want me to drop you at a hotel or something?”
“Ah, no,” Beauceron said, hesitating. “You’ve been reassigned as my partner.”
“The fuck I have!” Atalia spat. “I’ve been building an informant network here for eight goddamn months! Do you know how hard that was?”
“I’m sorry,” Beauceron said. “They decided I would benefit from your experience, since the investigation may take us to other planets in the Territories.”
“… and that’s the part where you say: ‘That won’t be necessary, sir – Atalia has her own shit to take care of, sir,’ ” she argued. She slammed an open palm into the wheel. “Goddamn it. They’re probably worried you won’t have the backbone to arrest your buddies, if it comes to it.”
“If we find them, I’ll arrest them,” Beauceron assured her.
She looked across at him, weighing him up. “Yeah? Well finding them is going to be a giant pain in the ass.” Atalia sighed. “Where do we start?”
9
They gathered in the ship’s tactical planning center, a conference room just aft of the bridge. One of the lighting panels over the table flickered unsteadily; a young crew member was standing on a step-stool below it, trying to tighten the light fixture with a pair of pliers. The six council members – two women, four men, none of them younger than sixty – took their seats around the table, waiting in silence. Eventually, the young man apologized.
“Sorry, I can’t get it,” he said.
“It’s fine,” one of the men replied. “Leave us, please.”
He stepped down, collected the step-stool, and made for the door. It slid shut behind him a moment later.
Near the head of the table, one of the men took a sip from a coffee mug. “I trust you all slept well,” he said.
Several chuckled at the old, familiar joke.
One of the women cleared her throat. “I may still be groggy from hibernation,” she confessed, “but my watch seems to indicate I’m up about forty years early. It was your shift, Lonergan – please, fill us in.”
Lonergan nodded. “I woke you because the conditions are ripe. I believe it’s time.” He typed on a datascroll in front of him, and a hologram appeared over the conference table, showing a schematic for a large electronic device. “I’ve been following the development of this project for the past six years. We acquired the blueprints several months ago, and tested it successfully two days ago. We’ve combined it with precision orbital weaponry to make a highly effective system. It’s exactly what we would need to place major metropolitan areas under direct threat, per the plan.”
“It’s a nuclear weapon?” one of the men asked.
“No,” Lonergan replied. “It has nothing to do with fission, and there are no radioactive elements. It’s an energy teleportation device, essentially. The base station sends energy to an object of our choosing, which then becomes unstable and explodes. But it gives us a high degree of control over both targeting and destructive force. We could take out a single car, or a building … or an entire city. If we were so inclined.”
The group studied the design in silence for a time.
“Is this device commonplace today?” a man asked.
“No,” Lonergan said. “We took the plans before the lab could test and commercialize their own prototype. Ours is the only version in existence.”
“It seems suitable,” the woman noted. “But that’s only part of our readiness criteria. What about signs of unrest?”
Lonergan turned to her. “The galaxy has changed since your last shift, Egline. There are currently four separate civil conflicts occurring in the Territories.”
“The Federacy is our main concern,” one of the men pointed out.
“The Federacy is embroiled in a historic corruption scandal,” Lonergan continued. “The Guild’s true origins have been revealed.”
“They know of the Senate’s involvement?” Egline asked, taken aback.
“Yes,” Lonergan said. “But our secret remains safe, as best I can tell. The Guild is now defunct, and the senators who ran it are all dead, killed by their assassin underlings.”
“What are they saying in the media?” another man asked.
“They’re livid,” Lonergan said. “The pundits are calling for criminal investigations and a complete overhaul of the Senate oversight process. The people are angry. They feel betrayed, and rightly so.”
“Armed protests?” one of the men asked.
“Not yet. But major demonstrations have occurred on every planet in the Federacy, and the Senate has only taken weak steps toward anti-corruption measures.”
“It seems the galaxy has not changed, then,” Egline observed, with a wry smile.
Lonergan smiled in return. “Perhaps it’s more accurate to say it has returned to the state we are most familiar with.”
“Just as he sai
d it would,” one of the other men noted.
“Yes, and that’s why I woke you,” Lonergan agreed. “Both readiness criteria have been met. Are we in agreement?” He looked slowly around the room. The council members nodded, each in turn.
“Then it’s decided. I’ll wake him myself.”
10
They took away his Forge first. Rath turned in his personal effects next – his counter bracelet, holophone, and Jaymy’s crystal necklace. The corrections officers gave him a set of neon yellow coveralls, and he changed, piling his clothes on the counter. The officer on duty listed his clothes and personal items on a datascroll, dumped them into a storage container, and then Rath signed the electronic form. Two other officers holding stun batons watched him closely. When he was done, a third officer placed manacles on Rath’s ankles and wrists, connecting them with a short chain that restricted his movement, and then opened a small black carrying case and pulled a thin metal collar out of it. Rath shrank away from it.
“What is that?” he asked.
“A neural interface disruptor,” the cop replied. “All inmates with internal computers have to wear one.”
He slipped it around Rath’s neck, and Rath felt it cinch tight. The cop stood and pulled out a datascroll, and tapped on the screen for several seconds. Suddenly, everything went dark, and Rath felt the plates in his face shifting on their own, reconfiguring to a different facial structure.
“I can’t see,” Rath said. “You shut down my eye implants.”
The cop grunted, and Rath heard tapping on the screen again. My enhanced hearing and smell is gone, too.
“I’m enabling basic sensory functions,” the cop replied. “But all your other implants are shut down, along with your internal computer and data connection.”
Rath’s sight returned, but the heads-up display interface was gone, and when he tried to zoom in on his eye implants, nothing happened. As an experiment, he tried subtly shifting the plates in his face to alter his appearance slightly, but he felt nothing move.
One of the guards handed Rath a datascroll with his prisoner information on it, and stood him in front of a wall labeled with height marks.
“Face the wall,” the guard ordered. Rath turned in place; the chain between his ankles forced him to keep his strides short.
The guard took two photos. “Turn and face me.”
Rath obliged. The guard held up his camera, showing Rath the last photo. He found himself staring at a picture of his own, natural face – they had used the disruptor collar to reset the implants and show his true identity. He shuddered.
“Welcome back to the world of normal humans, Guildsman.”
* * *
Rath spent the night in a holding cell not unlike the one he had occupied on Ocolin, after his frigid journey under the river ice. This time, however, the guards kept him manacled the entire time, and without the internal connection to his hemobots or his Forge, he had no way to repeat the seizure stunt he had pulled years before. In the morning, a guard opened his cell door, and Rath shuffled in front of the man to a private meeting room with a table and several chairs. An older man in a well-tailored suit looked up from the table, where he was flipping through documents on his datascroll. He wore glasses and a salt-and-pepper beard, and had an air of easy confidence to him. He stood and held out his hand.
“Mishel Warran, attorney. Nice to meet you,” the man said. Rath shook his hand awkwardly; the chain to his ankles prevented him from moving his hands rapidly. Mishel noticed the chains and frowned. “I already complained to them about those manacles, but I’m afraid they were adamant that you wear them whenever you’re out of your cell. Seems they’re a bit afraid of you around here.” He gestured to a chair. “Please, sit – lots to discuss.”
Rath sat. “Are you the public defender?”
Mishel shook his head, taking his own seat across the table from Rath. “No – I was, but I went into private practice some years ago. You can certainly use a public defender if you choose, but … I think I’m better equipped to handle your case. So, without further preamble: I’d like to be your lawyer, if you’ll have me.”
“Why do you want to be my lawyer?” Rath asked.
Mishel shrugged. “Honestly? Money. I don’t care if you pay me a dime: this case is already shaping up to be one of the most widely-publicized of the century, even more so than the Nkosi family trial.”
Rath frowned, stretching his neck against the uncomfortable disruptor collar. “I’m in the news?”
Mishel laughed. “Are you kidding? Mr. Kaldirim, you are the news right now. The local crews were all over the restaurant fight last night, and that off-duty cop went on TV saying you probably saved his life. Then the news broke that the police were arresting you for the Suspensys attacks based on matching DNA evidence collected at both scenes, and then early this morning, someone in IP leaked that the DNA led them to your birth records from Tarkis, and your real name, and Detective Beauceron’s report linked that name to your contractor number … 621, the enigmatic man who brought down the Guild … it’s been a total media frenzy since, you’re the top story, galaxy-wide. I had to wade through a sea of reporters just to get inside the building.”
Rath grimaced. “What are they saying about me?”
“On the news?” Mishel winced. “It started out complimentary, when you were just an average guy disrupting a kidnapping. But it turned vicious when your alleged crimes came to light. There’s not a lot of sympathy out there for the Guild or its former employees.”
“Yeah,” Rath rubbed his face. “That’s about what I deserve, I suppose. What are they going to try me for?”
“Murder,” Mishel answered. “Arthin Delacourt’s.”
“Just Delacourt?” Rath asked.
“My contacts in IP tell me they’re hoping to dig up evidence from other off-world murders you may have committed, to pin those on you, too. But so far it’s just Delacourt. The D.A. might throw in assault on those goons from the restaurant, but I doubt it. Too easy to beat on grounds of self-defense.”
“I’m still trying to figure out who they were,” Rath said.
“Your attackers?” Mishel held up his hands. “Three plumbers and a pipe-fitter who work together, no prior convictions. If you’re asking for a motive, I can’t help you. But don’t worry, they’ll get their time in court … once they get out of the hospital.”
“What about bail?”
“For you? No chance,” Mishel told Rath. “I’ll request it, of course, but there’s just no way. With your abilities, no judge is going to run the risk of letting you loose before a trial starts.”
“Can you get them to take this collar off me?” Rath asked.
Mishel shook his head. “No. And don’t try to break out, please: it just makes you look guilty.”
Rath tugged at the collar in annoyance. On the bright side, if this is all over the news, then Paisen will have heard about it. If I can’t beat the charges, I may need her help.
Mishel was studying him. “They’re going to push for the death penalty,” the attorney said.
Rath frowned. “How do you know?”
“I would, if I were the D.A.,” Mishel said. “And Scapa has a rather unusual death penalty process, to prevent the courts from becoming clogged with appeals. Convicts who receive the death penalty are executed immediately after sentencing.”
“Immediately?” Rath asked.
“‘Within an hour,’ ” Mishel told him. “That’s what the law says. No chance for an appeal. Our whole trial system here on Scapa is a bit fast and loose, you’ll find. We don’t stand on ceremony too much: our rules of evidence allow things to be a bit more conversational. ‘Get in, get out, and get it into the jury’s hands,’ as we like to say.”
“That’s not exactly reassuring,” Rath remarked.
“No,” Mishel admitted. “I’m just trying to let you know what to expect.” The lawyer cleared his throat. “I’m going to level with you: this is not going to be an
easy case to win. But it is winnable. You should also know that you can literally have any lawyer you want,” he admitted. “My fellow attorneys would kill for this case, just for the publicity. But you won’t get one as good as me. You need me on your team, Rath. I’m the highest-paid defense attorney on Scapa, and that’s because I have the best acquittal rate in the business.”
Rath looked the attorney over appraisingly. “You’re the best?”
Mishel nodded. “No question. But you get what you pay for.”
Rath shrugged. “I can afford it. I just don’t want to die.”
Mishel offered his hand across the table. “I’ll do my best to prevent that, you have my word on it.”
They shook hands, and then Rath exhaled noisily. “What do you need from me?”
“For now? Nothing,” Mishel told him, furling his datascroll and standing up.
“You don’t want me to tell you what really happened? If I killed Delacourt or not?”
“God, no!” Mishel laughed. “First of all, I don’t care. But mostly, my job is to show the jury all the weak points in the prosecution’s evidence. Once the government puts their case together, I’ll probably have some questions for you … but until then, just relax.”
* * *
Mishel returned later that afternoon. “Interview time,” he told Rath, dropping a briefcase on the bare metal table, and pulling a chair up next to Rath’s.
“With the press?” Rath asked.
“No, no,” Mishel explained. “The district attorney and a detective investigating your case want to have a few words. I’ll speak on your behalf, don’t worry.”
The district attorney was a stern middle-aged woman dressed in a grey silk skirt suit. She introduced herself as Toira Anguile before taking a seat across from Rath. The detective declined to give his name, leaning against the doorframe and fixing Rath with an emotionless gaze.
“Are you trying this one personally, Toira?” Mishel asked.
“I am,” she said.
“I thought you might,” the attorney said, his eyes narrowing. “That ought to make for an interesting trial. What can we do for you?”
