by Piers Platt
“He said he was hoping to give it to a woman he knew. Her name was Jaymy,” Beauceron reported.
“We’ll be hearing from her soon,” Anguile said. “So Mr. Kaldirim admitted to you that he was a guildsman and a murderer, he told you he had worked with a hacker in the past, similar to the hacker that attacked Suspensys, and he showed you a necklace that was purchased on Scapa, which he hoped to give to a woman named Jaymy. Is that all correct?”
Beauceron sighed. “That’s correct.”
“Thank you for your time, Detective.” Anguile turned her back on him, and made her way back to her desk.
Mishel was already standing up, walking toward the witness stand. “Detective, Mr. Kaldirim never told you that he killed Arthin Delacourt, did he?”
“No,” Beauceron said. “He never told me specific names.”
“Did you see him kill Arthin Delacourt?”
“Of course not,” Beauceron said.
“Did you see him kill anyone?”
“He killed several guildsmen who were attacking us, during the episode on Senator Lizelle’s airship.”
“Would those men have killed him, if he hadn’t killed them first?” Mishel asked.
“I believe so,” Beauceron said.
“He saved your life during that episode?” Mishel asked.
“Unquestionably,” Beauceron said.
“While you were working together, did he have the opportunity to kill other people?”
“Yes, on several occasions.”
“… but he chose not to?” Mishel prompted.
“That’s correct.”
“Do you think Mr. Kaldirim is a danger to society anymore?”
Beauceron studied Rath for a time. “No,” he said. “I believe it’s his sincere wish to never kill again. He stated as much to me, and I believe him.”
“Thank you.” Mishel smiled, heading back toward his desk. The lawyer stopped, and turned. “You’re a hero, Detective.”
“I … don’t think so,” Beauceron said, frowning.
“There’s that famous Beauceron humility, again,” Mishel laughed. “Let me try a different tack. Was your life at risk because of your decision to go up against the Guild?”
“I suppose so,” Beauceron replied.
“Were you under any obligation to investigate them?”
“I felt compelled to continue the investigation for personal reasons,” Beauceron said.
“But at the time, you weren’t even a police officer. You had been discharged from the service – no one ordered you to investigate the Guild, and you had the option to stop doing so at any time. Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes,” Beauceron admitted.
“Is the world a better place today without the Guild in operation?” Mishel asked.
“I don’t think there’s any question that it is,” Beauceron said.
“I think we’ve established that you’re a hero, then. At great risk to yourself, you chose to investigate the Guild under your own volition, and our entire civilization is safer today because of your actions. So, I want to thank you, Detective. We all owe you a great debt for what you did in bringing down the Guild.”
Beauceron frowned, but said nothing.
“The Guild’s overseers brought to justice. Thousands, maybe millions of lives saved,” Mishel continued. “Out of curiosity, Detective, would you have been able to take down the Guild without the help of my client?”
“No,” Beauceron said. “Absolutely not.”
“Do you think he deserves as much credit as you do?”
“He probably deserves more,” Beauceron said.
“Thank you, Detective. No further questions,” Mishel said.
Across the aisle, the district attorney stood up. “Detective Beauceron,” she said. “How much money was stolen from the Guild’s financial accounts while Siya Nkosi and the Headquarters employees were being arrested?”
“We don’t know,” Beauceron said. “Billions of dollars, we suspect.”
“Did Mr. Kaldirim ever tell you he wanted to take that money?”
“Yes,” Beauceron said. “He felt it was owed to him.”
“A minute ago, Mr. Warran used some very clever maneuvering to get you to imply that Mr. Kaldirim is a hero. Let me put it to you more directly: is Mr. Kaldirim a hero?”
Beauceron squirmed, and pursed his lips. “I think he’s a complicated man. He’s certainly done some good in his life.”
“And he’s committed a lot of crimes, if his confession to you is true,” Anguile pointed out. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Beauceron said.
“Detective, do you think someone who has killed upwards of fifty people deserves to be punished for those crimes?”
Beauceron sighed, looking at Rath. “Yes, I do.”
Anguile sat back down.
“The witness is excused,” the judge decreed. “Ten minute recess.”
Rath turned to Mishel. “Did we win that round?” he muttered, under his breath.
Mishel was nonchalantly typing on his datascroll. “Stop looking worried,” he told Rath. “This is all a pageant, and the jury are always watching you.”
Rath composed himself, then glanced across the aisle at the district attorney. “Anguile’s good,” he said.
“The very best,” Mishel agreed. “But remember: I taught her everything she knows.” The attorney looked up from the screen and winked at Rath. “But not everything I know. The real test is going to be when she puts Jaymy on the stand. And if we decide to put you up there.”
“I can’t see how my testimony would help,” Rath said.
“It’s certainly a risk, but it’s one we may need to take,” Mishel told him.
22
The Hurasu sat parked in an impound lot outside an Interstellar Police facility on Ruaton, a Federacy planet best known for its massive gambling industry. But Atalia had spent the two-day spaceflight studying the logs of evidence taken from the spacecraft, so when she landed, she ignored the impound lot completely, and instead took an air taxi to Neon City. She ate an early, light dinner while she waited for the local businesses to close, and then walked several blocks as night fell, working her way through the thinning commuter crowd.
She found the building easily, and walked in through the main entrance, approaching the night attendant at the front desk.
“Is Mr. Hendu still in?” she asked.
The man checked his monitor. “Ah … no, sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she said, smiling and holding up a small package. “I’m just going to deliver this.”
He waved her through the security gates. She took the elevator up three floors, then followed the signs in the corridor to the correct office, where an embossed, golden sign read Hendu and Issington, Attorneys at Law, next to a set of walnut-paneled doors.
Ernsd Hendu, Esquire. The attorney who negotiated the sale of the Hurasu, on behalf of his “anonymous” client, Atalia thought.
She ignored the delivery slot under the sign, and opened the package, slipping out a small device that she attached to the door’s keypad. She started the device, and waited while it ran through combinations, before an indicator light finally switched from red to green. Atalia heard the door unlock. She put the device back into the package and slipped through the door.
The first office she entered was Issington’s, according to the certificates on the wall. She walked across the hall and sat at the other desk, placing a data drive in the computer’s port before booting up. A diagnostics screen appeared in front of her, and she navigated through several options, before clicking on one. The machine ran a decryption program, and then showed her Hendu’s desktop. She browsed through a few locations, finally retrieving the attorney’s address book.
J … K … L … M. M for ‘Mikolos.’
Atalia opened the contact card, and set her holophone on the desk, pointing the phone’s camera at the screen and turning the video recorder on. Then she activated the c
omputer’s videoconferencing program, and hit the Dial button.
Mikolos answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?” He frowned at Atalia’s image on his screen. “You are not Hendu.”
“It’s Paisen, Captain,” Atalia said.
Mikolos’ frown deepened. “You don’t look like Paisen.”
Atalia crossed her arms and scowled at the screen. “I’ll just wait while you think about how ridiculous that statement was.”
She could see doubt flickering across his face. “How do I know you’re Paisen?” he pressed.
Atalia smiled: she had read Beauceron’s characteristically thorough report from the Guild incident several times over. “You want to play this game? Fine. I hired you on Aleppo but didn’t tell you where we were going until after we took off. I jumped out the back of your ship at eighty thousand feet above Fusoria. You like tea but you drink it black, with a little honey. Want me to go on?”
Mikolos’ face relaxed. “Why are you calling me from my lawyer’s office?”
“I needed to talk to you in a hurry, so I traced the sale of the Hurasu to him, broke into his office, and hacked his address book.”
“Why did you need to talk to me?”
“Because I barely avoided an IP sweep last week, and I need to know how they found me.”
Mikolos held both hands up in the air. “I have no idea,” he said. “I’ve been off the radar for months, just like we agreed.”
“Reassure me,” Atalia said. “Walk me through where you’ve been. Work backwards from now.”
“I’ve been laying low since I sold the Hurasu,” Mikolos said. “No offense, but I’d rather keep my current location to myself.”
“Fine,” Atalia agreed. “You sold Hurasu here on Ruaton, through Hendu. Before that?”
“Ruaton was my last stop – Rath and I left you on Bellislas and flew to Ruaton directly. I didn’t want to chance another trip in the Hurasu, so I sold it immediately, and Rath and I parted ways. I’ve only flown on public transport since. Is it true they caught Rath?”
Atalia pretended to hear a noise, and looked over the top of the computer. “I gotta go. Stay safe – I’ll be in touch, Mikolos.”
She cut the connection, and then stopped her phone’s recorder. Two minutes later, she walked out through the lobby, waving her thanks to the security guard. She saw a coffee shop several doors down, and walked there briskly, grabbing a free table and flicking open her datascroll. She ordered a coffee and a pastry, though she was only interested in the café’s internet access.
She ran a general search on Bellislas to start. It was a temperate planet, she discovered, and one of the more affluent ones in the Territories, due to its tourism trade. Its northern hemisphere was noted for its balmy weather and picturesque coastlines.
Nice place to retire if you’re a billionaire.
Atalia saw pictures of a yachting convention that was hosted each year along one of the northern coasts. She ran another query.
Do you like yachts, Paisen?
Hundreds of boats had been bought and sold in the past few months – Atalia scrolled through four pages of results and realized she was getting nowhere.
Let’s try real estate. If I were a billionaire assassin, where would I live?
Atalia squinted at a satellite map of the planet.
Northern hemisphere for the weather, along the coast for the view … and close to the spaceport, just in case I needed to make a quick exit.
But a search of real estate transactions in the past few months turned up no major sales – apparently the hot properties on Bellislas rarely changed hands. Atalia frowned.
She’s more disciplined than that. She’s not going to make big, flashy purchases. That’s amateurish.
The detective drummed her fingers on the tabletop.
Did she get a hotel room at some resort? No, too public. But what about …?
Atalia typed: private luxury rentals. The list was much shorter. Again, she narrowed the results to properties within an hour’s flight of the spaceport, and then copied the list to a spreadsheet and began researching each individually, eliminating any properties that showed they were still available.
That leaves us with eight possibilities.
Atalia sorted the list again, moving those eight to the top. She checked their availability calendars, each in turn, and learned that they booked far in advance – many were showing no availability for months. But the last property on the list was showing no availability at all for the next year.
Cliffside, Atalia read, is the ideal location for your next getaway. A fully furnished, luxury resort complex set on a bluff overlooking the Oceanus Major, Cliffside is staffed round-the-clock by a team of seven professionals, who are ready to cater to your every need.
Your next getaway, Atalia noted, snorting.
She opened the resort’s website. The normal advertising copy on the homepage had been replaced with an Under Construction symbol, and a message saying that the property was being renovated. Atalia pulled the satellite map back up, and found a neighboring house which was also available to rent. She dialed the number on her phone.
“Seaside Rentals,” a voice answered.
“Hi, I was interested in booking your property for my client,” Atalia said. “But I saw that your neighbor was having construction done. Do you know when that will be complete? I’m just worried about the noise level.”
“Which neighbor was that?” the woman asked.
“Cliffside,” Atalia told her.
“Oh, they are? First I’ve heard of it. I wouldn’t worry about it, in that case. They’re being very quiet about it – we honestly haven’t noticed a thing.”
“Great! Let me run it by my client, I’ll give you a call back,” Atalia said, and hung up.
She rolled up her datascroll and picked up her coffee and pastry. Outside, she flagged an air taxi at the curb.
“Spaceport,” she ordered, taking her seat. “You like coffee?”
“Sure,” the man said, shrugging. She handed him her cup. “It’s probably a little cold, but there’s a croissant or something in there, too.”
“Thanks!” he replied, but Atalia was already dialing a number on her holophone.
“il-Singh, do you know what time it is on my planet?” a tired voice asked.
“Sleep is a crutch,” she told him.
“Call me back tomorrow,” he yawned.
“Wake the fuck up,” she replied. “I got a hot lead.”
“On what?” her supervisor asked. “I thought you were reassigned to go chase bogeymen with Detective Beauceron.”
“I am. I need your help.”
“You never ask for help,” he noted, sighing. “What do you need?”
Atalia glanced at the ceiling. “About a dozen experienced officers, full tactical gear, and clearance to conduct a raid on Bellislas.”
The line was silent for several seconds.
“You’re kidding, right?”
* * *
Beauceron let himself into his hotel room on Scapa, stopping to hang his sweat-stained suit coat in the entryway’s closet.
Never liked the desert much.
He slipped his shoes off, too, then opened a water bottle he found on the desk, and drank several swigs. The viewscreen across from his bed flickered to life.
“Incoming call from Detective il-Singh,” it announced.
“Connect,” Beauceron said. The screen showed a dialing icon for several seconds, and then the connection opened up.
“Hey,” she said. “How’s Scapa?”
“Hot,” Beauceron replied. “And I’ve never been a fan of giving testimony. Too many people staring at you.”
“You should join the undercover team – we rarely have to take the stand, it’s a nice perk.”
“Mm,” Beauceron said, non-committal. “I got your message. It’s an odd ship.”
“The one that purchased the Zeisskraft drones on New Liberia?”
“Yes,” he agre
ed. “The registration was false, as you guessed. The ship is an old military transport, originally designed as a kind of landing craft for planetary invasions. But it’s very, very old – the manufacturer went out of business ages ago. Still, as unique as it is, apparently the ship hasn’t visited the Federacy much – I can’t find any records of ships of that type in Federacy airspace for the last twenty years.”
“What about purchase records for the ship?” Atalia asked.
“Nothing in Federacy records,” Beauceron said, chagrined. “Whoever’s on that ship, they’ve put a lot of effort into staying off of the Federacy radar. But I’ve put in another request with the Cyber Division – I’m going to see if they can track down a purchase record in Territory databases.”
“By hacking in?” Atalia feigned shock. “Detective, that sounds borderline illegal!”
He sighed. “I know, but apparently it’s not unprecedented. Have you found anything on the Hurasu?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I found Paisen. Pack your shit.”
23
“I thought we were supposed to be doing first aid training this afternoon,” the cadet behind Dasi whispered.
“We were,” Dasi agreed, waiting as the line of cadets entering the lecture hall paused momentarily.
“They never change the training schedule,” he observed, glancing furtively to make sure none of the instructors were nearby. “What’s this about?”
Dasi shrugged, stopping as she found an empty seat. “I don’t know.” Dasi suppressed a yawn – she had woken an hour early and spent the time at the gym, working on her upper body strength to improve her pull-up and push-up scores. And then we did an upper body workout for physical training right afterwards. That hurt.
“Take your seats,” the command instructor ordered.
As Dasi and her fellow classmates sat down, an elderly man in civilian clothes entered the auditorium, and set a datascroll on the podium. Behind him, the viewscreen flickered to life, and Dasi watched as a slide presentation appeared.
“This is Dr. Sirulli,” the command instructor announced. “He’s here to talk to you all about a new program we’re testing out. You’re being given a hell of an opportunity with this program, so give him your full attention.”
