by Piers Platt
“Doesn’t surprise me,” Atalia noted, setting her coffee down. “Credit card or bank account listed?”
“No,” Beauceron said. “They paid in cash, on delivery.”
“That means they probably didn’t want to be traced,” Atalia said. Then her eyes lit up. “Where were the drones delivered?”
Beauceron tapped on his datascroll for several seconds. “A cargo bay at the orbital transfer station – number ninety-three.”
“Two weeks ago?” Atalia asked. She slid her holophone out of her sweatshirt pocket, and flipped it on.
Beauceron checked the delivery receipt. “On the fifteenth,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Checking in with my buddy over in traffic control. He should have access to docking logs.”
Beauceron grinned. “… that will show which ship was at the docking bay that day. Good thinking.”
“They might have messed with the ship’s registration data, but at least we’ll know what type we’re looking for,” Atalia agreed. “Give him a couple hours, he’ll get us whatever they have on file.” She was about to close her phone when she frowned, and tapped on a hologram. “Holy shit.”
“What?” Beauceron asked.
“Pull up the news,” she instructed him, gesturing at his datascroll.
“Which site?” Beauceron asked.
“Any site.”
He opened a news aggregator on his browser, and his jaw dropped. Atalia slid off her stool and walked around the kitchen counter, looking over his shoulder. Beauceron was reading the lead article, but she tapped on the video accompanying it, and the newscast began playing.
“Rath Kaldirim, also known as ‘Contractor 621,’ has been captured. The former guildsman, who gained widespread notoriety in recent months for his high-profile take-down of the criminal organization known as the Janus Group, is currently jailed awaiting trial on the planet of Scapa. He was involved in a bar fight yesterday evening, and law enforcement on Scapa quickly identified him via DNA testing and arrested him for the murder of Arthin Delacourt, a wealthy local businessman. Details are still emerging regarding the arrest and the murder charge ….”
Beauceron muted the video. “They got him,” he observed.
“Looks that way,” Atalia agreed. “Surprised?”
“Yes,” Beauceron admitted. “A lot of people underestimated Rath – myself included – and he managed to make many of us look like fools.”
“Even smart guys make mistakes,” Atalia said.
“Or have bad luck,” Beauceron said. “Regardless, I think we better go to Scapa and see if he knows anything about this weapon test.”
“Good idea,” Atalia said. “Keep me posted.”
“You’re not coming?” Beauceron asked.
“No,” Atalia said. “For one, I’m going to wait here to see what ship my friend says was at that docking bay to pick up the drones. But I’m also going to follow up on the Hurasu lead, see if I can track down Rath’s buddy, Paisen.”
“The Hurasu?” Beauceron asked. “The Guild task force tore that ship apart; there was nothing there. They abandoned that lead months ago.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t on the investigation at that point.” She grinned. “And if those morons are anywhere near as incompetent as you are, I guarantee you they missed something.”
15
“Brace for it,” Mishel warned Rath. “Stand up straight, no smiling, no talking.” The lawyer reached across the back of the police cruiser, and tugged at Rath’s shirt collar, trying unsuccessfully to rearrange it so that it hid the disruptor collar around his neck. He grimaced. “This thing just makes you look like a criminal. It bugs the crap out of me.”
“Not as much as it bugs me,” Rath pointed out.
Mishel smiled, and wagged a finger at Rath. “Don’t go getting any ideas,” he warned. “This case is tough enough already, thank you very much. And I’ll still find a way to bill you, even if you do run.”
The car slowed, and Rath looked outside. Beyond a set of police barricades, a massive crowd of people had gathered in front of the courthouse, and Rath’s arrival had whipped them into a frenzy. He saw cameras everywhere. A police officer swung the door open.
“Here we go,” Mishel said.
Rath stood up, and a series of flash bulbs greeted him, along with a wall of sound.
“Rath! Rath!” Several microphones reached toward him over the barricade; he ignored them. A man close by was leaning over the barricade, yelling insults at him, and Rath saw a woman behind him waving a sign that read KILL HIM FIFTY TIMES OVER.
“Come on,” Mishel shouted. He took Rath by the elbow and guided him toward the courthouse steps.
Ahead, their path took them close to one of the barricades, and Rath had to step back as the press of people surged out, leaning for him. The nearest cop tried to push them back, but while he was distracted, a man leapt the barricade behind him and ran toward Rath. Rath, still manacled, tried to adopt a defensive stance, shouting a warning to Mishel that was quickly drowned in the noise of the crowd. The man punched Rath once in the stomach, screaming incoherently, before another police officer pulled him off.
“Inside, go!” Mishel shouted, pushing at Rath. The doors to the courthouse slammed shut a second later.
“Are you okay?” Mishel asked.
“Yeah, fine,” Rath told him. “It’s nothing. Thank you,” he told the police officer who had pulled the attacker away.
“Don’t fucking thank me,” the cop snarled, turning his back on Rath.
Mishel frowned at the cop, then turned and fixed Rath’s tie, which had been knocked askew. “Well, that was a real shit show. I believe we’ll use the back entrance from now on.”
* * *
The courtroom itself was decorated with hand-painted murals of Scapa’s more famous landmarks – a canopied outdoor bazaar, a series of jagged rock formations, and the multi-hued sand of the Rainbow Desert that Rath and Jaymy had visited not long ago. At the front of the room, an elderly, black-robed judge sat behind a raised desk, surveying her crowded courtroom. Though the audience was packed with spectators and members of the press, the room was silent, waiting in hushed anticipation. At a nod from the judge, District Attorney Toira Anguile stood and faced the jury members, who sat to one side of the room in their own raised wooden box.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this trial represents a unique opportunity for you. You’re all aware of the galaxy-wide menace that was the Guild, whose trained killers murdered innocent people for a paycheck. Justice is already being served to those who ran the organization. But today, we have the opportunity to bring one of the killers to justice.”
Anguile paused, and then pointed at Rath, who sat at a wooden table, next to Mishel.
“Rath Kaldirim – Contractor 621 – murdered over fifty people during his tenure as a guildsman, including, we suspect, a senator of this great Federacy. One of the people he killed was Arthin Delacourt III, a well-respected businessman from right here on Scapa. Mr. Kaldirim tried to kill Mr. Delacourt via deceit and trickery, and when that didn’t work, he broke into the Suspensys facility under an assumed identity, assaulted two employees, shot at several other employees, and then kidnapped Mr. Delacourt, who was sleeping calmly in his pod. He was still sleeping when Mr. Kaldirim pushed that pod out of a spacecraft and into Scapa’s upper atmosphere, where it reached temperatures of several thousand degrees before ultimately breaking apart, killing Mr. Delacourt in the process.” She strolled slowly across the courtroom, and Rath saw the jury members watching her closely.
“How do we know this? We know this because of evidence. Mr. Kaldirim is a human doppelganger – that means he can look like whoever he chooses, to hide himself in plain sight. He can look like you,” she pointed at one of the male jury members, “or you, or even me, if he chooses. But he can’t hide from DNA evidence. The man who broke into Suspensys and killed Mr. Delacourt was shot twice by security personnel, through the left shoulder, and
the right leg. Mr. Kaldirim has scars consistent with gunshot wounds in those exact locations. And DNA from blood collected on the space station is a perfect match for Mr. Kaldirim’s DNA, which was found after a bar brawl he was involved in more recently. Those are incontrovertible, scientific facts. Mr. Warran here may try to refute them, and employ some trickery of his own, but those are the facts. In addition, you’ll learn that Mr. Kaldirim actually admitted to a confidant that he killed Mr. Delacourt. But we’ll get to that. I want all of you to study Mr. Kaldirim closely.”
Rath felt the eyes of the jury members turn to inspect him.
“You know the violence that guildsmen are capable of; you know the sophisticated subterfuge they can employ to evade law enforcement. But despite all of those tools of subterfuge, we’ll prove that Mr. Kaldirim murdered Mr. Delacourt. All I’m asking from you is to make sure that a man so dangerous – a serial killer who can hide himself at will – is brought to justice, and taken off the streets of our home planet.”
The prosecutor walked over to her table and sat. Judge Aurmine, an elderly woman with greying hair, eyed Mishel. “Mr. Warran?”
He stood, buttoning his top suit button. “Thank you, your honor. Folks, I want to let you in on a little secret: Ms. Anguile was my student at law school, way back in my teaching days. True story! And I’m very proud of what she’s done since then – really, very proud.” Rath glanced at the district attorney, and saw her nostrils flare in anger, but she otherwise kept herself under firm control. “… but I’d have to give her an ‘F’ for this effort, I’m afraid,” Mishel continued. “Because she’s just plain wrong.”
He smiled disarmingly, and Rath saw several members of the jury smile with him. He’s good, Rath thought. He hasn’t said a damn thing about the case, but he’s already established himself as more of an authority than her. Let’s just hope he can pull off a miracle.
* * *
The trial recessed for the afternoon, and Mishel and Rath ate lunch together in one of the courthouse’s meeting rooms. Mishel worked as he ate, flipping through documents on his datascroll and making notes as he read. Rath borrowed a second computer from the lawyer, and began a search query of his own.
Arthin Delacourt’s sole heir, Rath learned, had been his son: Robald Delacourt. An image search confirmed that Robald was the man Rath had encountered at the cemetery. Robald had been a senior executive at the family’s business, a manufacturing company that specialized in components built from rare metals. But Robald had stepped down several years ago from his leadership position, and soon after, left the company entirely.
“Stepped down,” Rath frowned. Nobody ever gets officially fired from a family business, they just “step down,” or “take a leave of absence” to spend more time with their loved ones. Did Arthin fire his son?
Arthin had handed over the reins of the business to a new, external CEO soon after Robald had left, and then went into long-term hibernation up on Suspensys. Where I killed him, a few years later. Robald, meanwhile, found a new job as a business consultant. He was rich, but not overly so – his father retained the majority of the family’s wealth, in the form of company stock. And I figured Robald had me kill his father for that fortune. But what if he didn’t?
Rath refocused his search on Robald – and soon became overwhelmed with news results. Robald had announced his candidacy for the Senate just six months before Rath arrived on Scapa to kill his father. Maybe he needed the money to fund his campaign …? Rath flipped forward several months in the search results.
Regardless of funding, Robald had run a very strong campaign, and had been leading in the polls against a man called Gaspar Foss. And then I attacked Suspensys, and killed his father. The police had named Robald as a suspect in that murder, detaining and questioning him, but they soon released him, lacking sufficient evidence for an arrest.
Rath looked up: across the table, Mishel’s holophone was buzzing persistently. Mishel picked it up and checked the screen.
“Ah, right,” he said. He crumpled up the wax paper that had held his sandwich, and tossed it toward the trash can. It missed. “You’re going to have a visitor,” he told Rath.
“Oh?” Rath asked, shutting off his datascroll. “Who?”
“You’ll see in a moment.” Mishel stood, retrieved the ball of wax paper, and threw it out. Then he strode to the door. Outside, two armed bailiffs stood guard, and Rath saw a third person waiting to enter.
Jaymy.
He stood up as Mishel ushered her in, and then the lawyer stepped outside. “I’ll let you two have a few moments, then I’ll be back to chat a bit,” he said.
“We’re allowed to talk?” Rath asked, confused. “I figured, because she was testifying ….”
Mishel waved a hand dismissively. “No, it’s fine.” He grinned. “Scapa’s like the Wild West.”
“The what?” Rath asked.
“Old saying, dates back to the pre-colonial days. Don’t worry about it.”
“Hi, Rath,” Jaymy said, when Mishel had shut the door.
“Hi,” he said.
They stood in awkward silence for a second, and then Rath pointed to a chair. “You want to sit?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Do you want anything to eat or drink?” he asked.
“No, thank you.” She sat, and then met his eyes. “I guess you weren’t lying this time.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I wanted to thank you … for trying to protect me, back in the restaurant,” she said.
He shook his head, embarrassed. “No, I should be apologizing. I put you in danger, they were there for me.”
“Who were they?” Jaymy asked.
“I still don’t know,” Rath said, “but I’m working on it.”
“You’re all over the news,” she said.
“So I hear,” Rath said. “I hear they’re ready to crucify me.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “Sometimes they talk about how you exposed the Guild, and how we’re lucky to be rid of them. But mostly they’re talking about all those people you killed. They’re saying you deserve to die, too.”
“I think I owe those people something,” Rath admitted. “What do you think?”
She sighed. “I don’t know what to think.” She bit her lip, watching him closely. “The Guild … they would have killed you if you hadn’t followed their orders.”
“Yeah,” Rath agreed.
“… but you knew that going in,” she pointed out. “They told you that was part of the deal.”
Rath nodded. “Yes.”
“And you wouldn’t do it again, if you had the chance.”
“No, I wouldn’t. No amount of money makes it worthwhile.”
“You took all of the Guild’s money. They say it was a lot,” she noted.
“It is,” Rath said. “But you can’t buy a clear conscience.”
“You told that detective you were going to get your memory erased,” she said.
“I decided not to. I think the good memories outweigh the bad.”
Rath caught the hint of a blush on her cheeks. She changed the subject. “So that’s your real face?”
“Yeah, this is me.” He fingered the disruptor collar. “The true Rath.”
“It’s a nice face,” she admitted, smiling sadly. “You should wear it more.”
The door opened, and they turned to see Mishel leaning in. “Can we talk business?” he asked.
“Sure,” Rath agreed.
Mishel sat with them at the table and unrolled his datascroll. He smiled at Jaymy. “I just want to ask you a few questions. I understand Ms. Anguile has already interviewed you, I’d just like the chance to do the same.”
“She’s planning on calling me as a witness,” Jaymy told them.
“I know,” Mishel said.
“Rath told me a lot of stuff about the Suspensys attack,” Jaymy continued. “Details, specifics – he was pretty convincing. I don’t … should I say all of that stuff
on the stand, during the trial?”
Rath reached across the table and put his manacled hand on top of hers. “Jaymy, it’s okay. You should tell the truth. I can’t ask you to lie for me.”
16
Senator C. J. Lask laughed heartily. “That sounds exactly like something they told me back during my first term,” he told his dinner companions. He wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin, and then pushed his chair back. “Excuse me for a minute – I need to use the restroom.”
He crossed the dim restaurant, waving briefly at a healthcare industry lobbyist he recognized, and made his way into the bathroom. The urinals were empty – he chose the nearest one and relieved himself, with a sigh. Behind him, another man emerged from one of the toilet stalls and exited the restroom quickly. Lask zipped himself up, washed his hands thoroughly, and dried them under the air dryer. He emerged and started back across the restaurant, and then stopped suddenly, a frown of confusion flickering across his face.
Another man was seated in his chair, and though he could only see the back of the man, he seemed vaguely familiar. But before he could continue on, a woman stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the table.
“C. J., what a pleasant surprise,” she said.
“Renata,” he said, leaning in for a hug. “How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks. Will you join me for a minute at my table? I have something I need to discuss with you, senator to senator.”
“Of course,” he agreed. He followed her into a separate room, and sat across from her in a private booth. “Do you know – I went to the restroom just now, and when I came out, someone had taken my seat!”
“How odd,” she said. “Someone you know?”
“I couldn’t see,” he confessed. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like to discuss what I can do for you,” she said.
“I don’t play the ‘I owe you a favor’ game – you know that, Renata. If you’re making me an offer, I can’t promise I’ll reciprocate.”
