The BETA Agency

by Maxwell Coffie

  “Fine. It’s the Royal Health Centre. To be honest, I’d never heard of it till just now.”

  “I have,” she said, and took out her cell-comm. After a few taps, she handed me the device to look at.

  There was an article on the screen: RHC begins new clinical trials, the heading said. I scanned through the story.

  “Wait,” I said, incredulous. “They think they found the cure for blood cancer?”

  “The trials began about a year ago. I remember discussing it in one of my physical health classes. Now, your criminal, do you know how long ago he started his treatment with RHC?”

  I remembered the calendar. “About a year.”

  “Circumstantial.” She shrugged. “But it is something to go on.”

  “Damn, you’re good at this.”

  “Do you want eggs or not?”

  “I do. And when you’re done, bring the food in here. I feel like we’re detective sisters.”

  To my amusement, she rolled her eyes, before leaving the room. Whilst she was gone, I asked DEB to switch my window to blackboard mode. The window darkened to black, and I began scribbling furiously across its surface with my index finger. By the time Kattie returned, my window was filled with luminous, white writing.

  We ate fried eggs, toast, and drank hot cao, as we talked.

  “There are still a lot of missing pieces,” I grumbled, as I munched. “This criminal I’m talking about, he hurt a lot of people this last month—“

  “You can just say ‘murdered’, you know?” Kattie said. “It does not upset me.”

  I munched. “Fine, this criminal I’m talking about murdered a lot of people this month—“

  “And I know you’re talking about the Ripper,” she interrupted again. “Obviously. It’s been all over the news. The killings stopped a couple of weeks ago, but the body count was up to eight.”

  “Do I have your permission to finish what I’m saying, Miss Know-it-all?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’m saying: he’s hurt a lot of people over the years—apparently—but this last month, he changed his method and frequency.”

  “He did?”

  “I hear he used to burn his victims too.”

  “Ah.”

  “I wondered why he would change his methods. I suppose now, the cancer discovery has shed some light on the state of his psyche at the time. Maybe he was getting self-destructive, purposely leaving behind a trail that could easily be traced back to him. So the cancer explains the ‘how’. But it doesn’t explain the why. He used to take out powerful people—”

  “So he was an assassin,” Kattie concluded.

  “Yes. The question is: why would he suddenly decide to start randomly offing innocent betas?”

  “Betas?”

  “I mean, black-bloods.” I hadn’t said that word in a while; it sounded dirty on my tongue.

  Kattie nibbled on the edge of her toast. “How do we know that the killing was random?”

  “Our analysts at the station did a lot of cross checking. Other than age and economic status, the victims weren’t really related in any way.”

  “Not in any way that was obvious, you mean.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, you got me there. You think maybe he killed them off to get on the clinical trial? No, wait, that’s dumb. He would only need to kill one person. And he might have had an administrator or something under duress.” I paused. “Come to think of it, if he did have an administrator under duress, then he wouldn’t need to kill anyone in the first place because, it’s not like he needed to go up a waiting list or anything. Dammit.” I had gone from a seemingly good theory to zilch in less than five fractions.

  “You keep assuming that whoever he had on the inside was under duress,” Kattie said.

  I stopped. “Isn’t that the more obvious assumption?”

  “I do not think so. I mean: you keep looking for a motive for his murders, and you have pointed out that his recent choice of victims has been uncharacteristic. So, what if the motive was never his to begin with? What if the victims were not his choosing?”

  “What are you saying?” My eyes widened at her insinuation. “You’re saying that his cancer treatment, being put on the clinical trial, it was all a payoff?”

  “He is an assassin, is he not? And is that not what they do? Murder for compensation?”

  “Murder for money.”

  “So in this case, the currency was just a little unorthodox.”

  “It’s an insane theory.”

  “Do not look at me that way. I am twelve.”

  “Insane theory.”

  Kattie just stuffed her mouth with egg.

  I bit on my bottom lip for a moment. “Kattie, how do you feel about a trip to the doctor’s?”

  CHAPTER 62

  I flipped through my magazine, and tried not to look suspicious. I was in the expansive main hall of the Royal Health Centre. The hall was clinical, with its whitewashed walls, enormous glass windows, and gleaming silver pillars. Doctors and healers were all over the place, striding by in their respective uniforms of white and blue.

  I was leaning against one of the pillars, in disguise: a blond wig, mirrored shades, a simple blazer, plain denims. A receptionist’s desk was not far behind me.

  “Good morning,” I heard Kattie say to the receptionist.

  The voice was so cheery, so perky, that I had to peek around the pillar to make sure it really was my sister.

  “Good morning.” The receptionist.

  Kattie twirled a strand of her hair, and struck a listless pose. “Uh, I’m looking for my Uncle Seamon.”

  The receptionist blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “My Uncle? Seamon?” Kattie paused. “He works here? Are you a temp? Obviously, you won’t know him if you’re a temp. Can I talk to someone who’s not a temp?”

  The receptionist’s smile looked forced. “I’m not a temp, Miss. There’s only one Seamon here, and that’s Dr. Seamon Chartello, our Chief of Hospital Affairs.”

  “That’s the one,” Kattie said. “Can you like, use your intercom thing and let him know I’m here for our lunch thing?”

  “And you are?”

  “His niece.”

  “I need a name.”

  “Lady,” I could almost hear the eye-roll in Kattie’s voice, “There’s only one niece meeting him here for lunch, okay? Please, no drama. I had to use public transport to get here, and my hair is all frizzy, and I am far too PTSD for drama.”

  I chuckled at the receptionist’s rigid grin. She pushed a button on her intercom. “Hello? Please link me to Dr. Chartello’s office. Thank you.”

  As we waited, Kattie chewed on her gum. Loudly. The receptionist drummed impatiently on her desk. The corners of her mouth were so forcefully raised that, they looked like they would tear any moment.

  “Hello? This is the front desk. Is this Dr. Chartello’s secretary? May I speak to Dr. Chartello please? It’s about his niece.” The receptionist listened. “Oh?” She looked at Kattie. “She says he doesn’t have a niece.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. When was she elected custodian of his life?”

  The receptionist sighed. “Are you sure you have the right hospital?”

  “You’re not seriously asking me that question. How many Dr. Seamon Chartello’s are there in this city?”

  The receptionist returned to her call. “The girl’s sure. Can you just patch me in to Dr. Chartello? Thank you.”

  We waited a moment longer.

  “Hello, Dr. Chartello. A little girl claiming to be your niece is here. She says you have lunch plans?” She listened for a moment, and then turned to Kattie. “He says he doesn’t have a niece.”

  “What?” Kattie sounded genuinely upset. “This isn’t funny.”

  “He’s not joking, love.”

  To my utter bewilderment, Kattie started to cry. People turned their heads to stare.

  “I can’t believe he’s doing this to me again,” she bawled like a brat, collap
sing to her knees in a show of true theatrics. “He promised that after Pappy died, he was going to be there for me. He promised. Tell him I’m sorry about scratching his transporter that one time. I didn’t mean it. He doesn’t have to be mean.” She sobbed big wracking sobs.

  The receptionist looked horrified. “Sir, I really think you should come down here. She’s making a scene. I don’t know what to do.” She listened. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” She bent over her desk to address Kattie. “Your uncle is on his way. Please calm down.”

  But Kattie kept up the dramatics. Now, she was overdoing it a tad; I worried that hospital security would show up. But then, who wanted to be the one to call security on a sobbing twelve year old?

  After maybe twenty moments, an elderly Lillith man with a greying beard paced out of the lift at the other end of the hall. I recognized Dr. Chartello immediately from my cyber-link research.

  He strode right past me to the receptionist’s desk. “What is going on here? I have work to do.”

  “Uncle Seamon,” Kattie cried, moving to hug him. She stopped. “Wait, you’re not my uncle.”

  The doctor looked flabbergasted. “Is this some kind of joke?” He glared at the receptionist, who shrugged.

  Kattie looked thoughtful. “Hm, guess I have the wrong hospital. Ah well. Chill y’later.” She turned on her heel, and headed for the doors.

  I had never been so proud.

  I waited for Dr. Chartello to finish giving the receptionist an earful about incompetence and prioritization. Then, when he walked past me again, I followed and joined him in the lift with a group of other doctors and healers. We went up. Our number dwindled with every floor we stopped on. After the fifth floor, only Dr. Chartello and I remained.

  The doctor turned to me. “Are you lost?”

  “No,” I said. “Going up. Like you.”

  He frowned. “No, you’re not. All floors above the fifth floor are restricted to staff and administration.”

  “Oh? Guess I have to do this now then,” I muttered. I pulled out a blaster.

  He swore, and raised his hands. “This is a hospital! Have you no shame?”

  “Shut up. Lead me to your office. We need to talk.”

  “You’ll never make it past security, you bat.”

  “Watch it. There’s security? Dammit.” I pulled him close, and pressed my blaster against his lower back. “Be a sweetheart, and get us both through, or you’re going to need a kidney transplant. Or spleen. Or liver. I’m not really sure what I’ll be blasting through; I was useless at biology.”

  “You won’t get away with this.”

  “Please, don’t use trite phrases. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Patience, till we get to your office.” The lift doors opened up to a corridor. There were two security guards and a door at the end of it. I hid my weapon. “Remember: be good, or things will get messy.”

  “Now, who’s being trite?”

  We walked. As we approached the guards, I noticed a flicker of confusion in their eyes. One of them reached for his stun gun.

  “Oh, come on,” I grumbled. I shoved the doctor aside, and flash flitted up to the guards. Two well-placed punches, and they were both out.

  I glared at Dr. Chartello. “You signalled them, you bastard.”

  “What did you expect?” he spat. “And how did you move like that?” Now, there was real fear in his eyes. “Y-you’re a black-blood, aren’t you?”

  “I really despise that term. Move it.” I was pointing my blaster at him again.

  He swiped his key card through the lock, and the door slid open. I followed him down a couple of corridors, smiling politely at every doctor we met. Finally, we reached a door with his name on it. I pushed him in, and locked the door behind us.

  “Tell me what you want?” he said, as I went around the room, drawing all the blinds. “Money? Credit codes? Medication?”

  “Sit down.”

  He sighed, and sat in a sofa. I looked around at the thick carpet, glossy furnishings, and embroidered drapery.

  “Nice office,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Who is Patient X?”

  He froze. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You are the Chief of Hospital Affairs, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re spearheading the latest cancer clinical trials?”

  He hesitated. “I am.”

  “And you don’t know who Patient X is?”

  “What do you want?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Time to bluff. “Okay, let me make this really easy for you to understand. I am here to blackmail you, Dr. Chartello. I know about Patient X, and I know you slipped him into the trial without authorization. I am very inclined, at this exact moment, to call up the Drug Board and tell them all about how you tampered with what was potentially the breakthrough clinical trial of the century. I’m quite sure your records will reflect the expected inconsistencies.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated, more confidently this time.

  I glared at him. Then, I stood over him, bending till my face was units from his. “Reconsider,” I said. “I know you know exactly who I’m talking about. And if I know about your mystery patient, imagine what else I know. You’ve seen how highly trained I am. Imagine what else I’m capable of. I was willing to shove a blaster in your face. Imagine the lengths I’m willing to go. Who do you think I work for? Take a guess. S.I.? Maybe worse? You really think I’m not going to unravel every piece of muck secret you’ve got on this clinical trial?”

  He didn’t say anything. His bottom lip trembled.

  “One name is all I’m asking for,” I said. “And when the muck hits the fan, I will personally make sure that you get a better deal than your partners in crime.”

  He avoided my eyes.

  “If you’ve got family, Dr. Chartello,” I said, “I want you to think about them before you utter your next words.”

  His eyes lifted to meet mine again, and they were filled with terror. “You don’t understand. They have a killer. A monster who takes faces. I don’t want to die.”

  “Dr. Chartello,” I said, softly. “I slew that monster. If you’re going to be afraid…fear me.”

  Silence.

  “I didn’t know Patient X,” he finally said. “They just told me to bump someone out and put him on the trial.”

  “Who did?”

  “P-Pyrate Ellios.”

  “Who’s Pyrate Ellios?”

  “He’s the head of our board of directors. He said he would get me fired if I didn’t do it. Make me unemployable.”

  “Do you swear by that?”

  “I swear it.”

  I looked into his eyes. He was scared, but he wasn’t lying.

  “Do you know why you were asked to do that?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I just did as I was told. Patient X was very sick, and too far along. Even after the experimental procedures, I doubt he’s going to survive. Especially now that he’s began missing his appointments. He didn’t come in today.”

  Because he’s a million feet under the ground, I thought, and stepped back.

  “Do not try to find me,” I said. “If your security has got any footage of me, get them to delete it. I get even the slightest suspicion that you’re coming after me, and news of your muck up will leak fast.”

  I tossed him the blaster, and he caught it, astounded. “You can keep that,” I said. “I bought it at a toy shop.”

  As I walked away, I heard him mutter, “Damn black-bloods.”

  I said over my shoulder, “Damn right.”

  CHAPTER 63

  Kattie was waiting for me in the parking lot.

  “Did you talk to him?” she asked, as we walked to our transporter.

  “I did. And it’s all thanks to you. You were brilliant. Where did you learn to do that?” I said, opening the tra
nsporter doors.

  “I watch the other girls at school.”

  “Maybe we should start a P.I. firm. We could call it Everglade & Everglade.”

  “Would I get paid?” Kattie asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Health insurance?”

  “What are you? The Union?”

  “I was attempting a joke.”

  “I know. So was I.” I smiled at her, and then: “Well, back to business. According to the doctor, the one who gave him the order was the head of their board of directors, one Pyrate Ellios.”

  Kattie already had her cell-comm out. She tapped the screen busily for a moment. “Alright, Pyrate Ellios is not only the head director of Royal Health Centre, he’s also the owner and acting president of NeoChem Labs. NeoChem is the organization funding the clinical trials.”

  “Let’s see if we can’t get him to spill his guts.” I took the number off their contact page, and dialled. A representative answered, and I asked if Mr. Ellios was in.

  “He’s out of town,” I announced to Kattie, when I’d hung up. “So we can’t repeat the same routine we did here. What else does that page say about him?”

  Kattie scrolled down her screen. “Nothing very interesting. There is information about his old learning centres, his college, and his work history. Also, apparently he owns majority shares in the Crystal Lake hoverball team.”

  I blinked. “The Warriors?”

  “Do we have another hoverball team?”

  “How long has he had these shares?”

  Kattie tapped on her screen a few times. “He purchased them three months ago at about three hundred million credits. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking I love our team, but they’re not worth half that.” I stopped, as a realization dawned on me. “At least, they weren’t three months ago. But now, we have one player that could change all that.”

  “Could one player be that significant?”

  “You haven’t seen Chard Heller play, Kattie,” I said. “He’s all the sports analysts have been talking about for weeks. The way he shoots, the way he moves, he’ll be unstoppable on the field. The value of the Warriors could double by the end of the coming season.”

  “And you think this is somehow connected to the clinical trials.”