He bit back the emotion as Kaielynn opened the door.
The man who slipped inside was thick with the beginnings of fat, the way that a former athlete looked before he realized he needed enhancements to keep himself thin. Light shone off his bald head, accenting his white eyebrows and furrowed brow.
“Luc Deshin,” the man said in a very smarmy tone. “You’re famous all over the Alliance.”
Deshin didn’t smile or even acknowledge that the man spoke. The man started to step toward Deshin, but Kaielynn grabbed the man’s arm.
The man looked at her as if she were violating his personal space.
“No farther until I’ve had a look at you,” she said.
She was not being entirely truthful, since she’d already had a look at him with her various security enhancements, making sure he wasn’t carrying known lethal biologicals or hidden weapons.
The outside team had already silently blocked his links, and blocked any warnings he might have set up to let him know his links—including his emergency links—were off.
The man looked at her as if he were measuring his strength against hers. Then he moved his head slightly, a concession or permission, something that kept him in control—or at least let him think he was.
Apparently that movement annoyed Kaielynn because she did an old-fashioned pat down, and she wasn’t easy on his private parts. She grabbed hard enough to make him wince.
Deshin let them have their little one-up-manship. He knew that if the man were insecure about his status and strength, he’d try something against Kaielynn now or when they were alone.
Kaielynn could handle herself. The man wouldn’t know what he had gotten into.
Kaielynn finished. The man moved away from her faster than he needed to, and cleared his throat, which almost made Deshin smile. Apparently, the man didn’t trust his own voice after Kaielynn’s little power grab.
“I hope to hell this meeting was worth that,” the man said.
Deshin still hadn’t said anything.
Kaielynn put her hand in the man’s back and shoved him forward just enough to re-establish her dominance.
“You introduce yourself when you’re in the presence of Mr. Deshin,” she said.
Deshin’s desire to grin grew. He loved it when she took control of a particularly difficult potential client.
Deshin kept his face impassive, though, waiting for the man to comply with Kaielynn’s request.
“Can you call off the muscle?” the man asked Deshin, still trying to establish them as equals.
“No,” Kaielynn answered him. “He will not. And if you are not careful, you’ll be leaving before this meeting even starts. This is Mr. Deshin’s room, and you’re going to follow his rules.”
“It’s my city, girlie, and you can follow my rules,” the man said.
Kaielynn grabbed his arm and propelled him toward the door. Her grip was so tight that the man winced again. Deshin realized the grimaces were involuntary.
“You toss me out and you don’t hear nothing about anything,” the man said. “I control information here.”
Kaielynn grabbed the door knob and pulled the door open, while keeping her other hand on the man. She was so strong that she could keep him under control while handling the door.
The man slammed a hand against the door’s frame.
“Look, Deshin,” he said, his back to Deshin, “I’m Didier Conte. You’ve probably heard of me. I used to be a prison guard.”
Deshin hadn’t heard of him. But that was enough to stop Kaielynn’s manipulation for now.
Let him stay, Deshin sent her. Close the door, keep your hand on his arm, and hold him tight enough to remind him that you could break every bone in his body before he could lay a finger on you.
I wouldn’t have to break his bones, Kaielynn sent. I just need to squeeze his nuts again. This man hasn’t fought in years. He’s acting on muscle memory—and not very good memory at that.
She turned Conte around, “accidentally” knocking him against the door a few times as she did so, bending his elbow backwards hard enough to make his skin gray. When he was in position in front of Deshin, Deshin was about to speak when Conte, the idiot, spoke again.
“You don’t need to rough me up,” he said. “I’m here to do business.”
“You’ll do it Mr. Deshin’s way,” Kaielynn said. “You will remember that.”
Conte glanced at her, then at Deshin as if Deshin were his friend. Maybe this guy did control the market on Angu. He certainly acted like someone used to being in charge—or convincing people that he was.
Deshin didn’t like out-of-shape arrogant bullies. He had never liked them, and he liked them less now that his brilliant little son had been the target of a few.
“I understand you have PierLuigi Frémont DNA,” Deshin said. He didn’t know that for certain. He had only been told that the black marketeers on Angu had access to DNA from that prison.
“Yeah, I do,” Conte said.
That little thread of excitement flowed through Deshin again. He tamped it down.
“But it’s only for fast-grow,” Conte said.
Fast-grow clones developed into full-sized adults within days or weeks. They were usually designed for one task, and often that task was for disposables. Fast-grows cleared brush on new worlds, for example, and if they went afoul of the aliens there, no one cared. The fast-grows certainly couldn’t mount a defense.
Usually, though, fast-grows were for identity shifts, to replace someone who was kidnapped for just a day or so (usually a night, while the original should have been sleeping) to throw off the authorities.
Fast-grows were useless for anything that required brains or complicated maneuvers—things like Anniversary Day.
“Don’t play with me,” Deshin said.
“I’m not,” Conte said. “I have had Frémont DNA since the day the man died, but the DNA was contaminated. I can get you lookalikes, but they’re pretty useless for anything else. However, I have DNA from Istvan Uren and—”
“I’m interested in Frémont,” Deshin said coldly. “I’m sure you’ve had other inquiries in the past six months.”
“I have,” Conte said, “and if I knew who the hell provided the DNA, I’d be talking to that person myself. I could have made a fortune.”
If Deshin were a true investigator, he would have wanted the names of the others interested in Frémont clones. But he wasn’t. He would let Flint know that a lot of people had been sniffing around Conte, and maybe Flint would tell the right people.
“Frémont’s DNA had to come from prison,” Deshin said. “The authorities cleaned up Abbondiado too well to make usable clones out of what was left.”
Again, he was working on a hunch. Conte’s attitude toward that would help Deshin figure out what was going on.
“That’s true,” Conte said. “For the longest time, I advertised that I was the only source of Frémont DNA in the universe. Then what happens? Those twenty clones show up, march in lockstep, and Good God, they can think. Someone had pure DNA.”
Something in his tone caught Deshin’s ear. A bit of bitterness, maybe. A tinge of suspicion. Or maybe it was just garden variety envy.
“You know who,” Deshin said.
“No, I don’t,” Conte said. “I’m the one who found Frémont’s body. I used to be a guard in the prison, and I took what I needed. I did that for a number of the prisoners, and I was smart. I didn’t market the stuff for years. I waited, thinking I’d sell it a decade after I retired. I was just getting ready when the prison fire made it all moot. No one cared what former guards were doing, and no one was tracking the DNA. Especially not fast-grow. No one cares about fast-grow.”
And no one cared about DNA that went outside of the Alliance. Deshin knew that much as well.
“You sold a lot before you quit, just not inside the Alliance,” Deshin said.
“Are you kidding? No, I didn’t.” Conte glanced at Kaielynn, who hadn’t moved. Then
he looked back at Deshin. “I worked in max security. No way in hell was I ever going to get interred in one of those places. Patience is the key to getting rich. I’m sure you know that.”
Deshin wasn’t going to agree or disagree with this man. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed him, although that look at Kaielynn made things more convincing. The man wasn’t up to defending himself against her; he certainly couldn’t handle the kind of prisoners he’d mix with inside a max security—especially as a former guard. A former guard who no longer had all of his defensive and security equipment.
“Then the DNA came from somewhere else,” Deshin said, “and you’re of no use to me.”
Conte bit his lip. Deshin could see every thought cross this man’s face. He wondered how Conte ever survived in the black market, especially if he did business with the Black Fleet.
“I may know a name,” Conte said.
“A name that’s useful?” Deshin asked. He didn’t like how tentative Conte seemed.
“I’ve given out other names, but I received word that they didn’t have the DNA.” Conte made it all sound so civilized. Deshin doubted that it had been. “There’s only one possibility left.”
“But you haven’t checked the name out,” Deshin said.
“I’ll be honest,” Conte said. “The name makes no sense. But it’s the only possibility.”
He glanced at Kaielynn. She still had a grip on his arm. It had to hurt.
“I’ll tell you what,” Conte said. “I won’t charge you for the name.”
As if he were doing Deshin a favor.
“I don’t pay for information,” Deshin lied. “So it doesn’t matter.”
“But you want the name,” Conte said.
“I want the DNA,” Deshin said. “Someone is clearly supplying it.”
“That’s the thing,” Conte said. “I don’t think anyone is.”
Deshin couldn’t help the look of interest that crossed his face. He was intrigued now.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“I mean,” Conte said. “I haven’t heard of any for sale other than my fast-grow DNA.”
“Yet there were slow-grown clones of PierLuigi Frémont on the Moon not six months ago.”
Conte nodded. “I tried to find records of sales,” he said. “I haven’t been able to find any.”
“So where did they come from?” Deshin asked.
Conte shook his head.
“Then where does your single name come from?” Deshin said.
“A long shot,” Conte said. “An extreme long shot.”
“So tell me,” Deshin said.
And Conte did.
THIRTY-EIGHT
SALEHI FELT LIKE he hadn’t left his ship’s library in weeks, even though it had only been days. He had been buried deep in existing clone law, most of it cobbled together after some crisis or other. There seemed to be no real thought to the laws at all. They were drafted as reactions to whatever had sparked them, not as an existing body of work. They hadn’t been crafted, like some of the laws in the Earth Alliance, and they weren’t comprehensive. They hadn’t even existed long enough to be chiseled into order by the courts.
They were a contradictory mess.
The library’s nanoscrubbers were on full. Bots came in and out, bearing food (courtesy of the staff), coffee, and changes of clothing. Although whenever a bot brought Salehi more clothes, he figured it was time for a shower, and he would leave.
At least the room hadn’t developed that law school funk he’d noticed before finals. It didn’t matter how many scrubbers were in the law school’s systems during finals week, every study area smelled like a gym locker with a broken cleaning system.
Here, at least, the library remained somewhat pristine. A ship had to have better environmental equipment than a law school.
Not that he cared beyond that moment when he returned to the library, saw his staff working, and Uzvuyiten ensconced in his spot.
Uzvuyiten got up every four hours or so, and left the room. Salehi always felt relieved about that. He suspected the others did as well.
The other lawyers and assistants had come and gone from the room. Salehi stopped keeping track of all the players long ago. He simply didn’t have enough brain space to handle it all, particularly if he wasn’t going to use AutoLearn.
Sir? The inquiry was soft, in his links, which was odd. It came from Lauren Jiolitti, one of the attorneys he had hand-chosen to take this trip with him. She hadn’t made partner yet, but she would. She was one of the best he’d seen.
She was sitting only a few meters from him, which was what made the contact even odder.
Yes? he sent.
I just got word from S3 about our investigation. I wasn’t sure if Uzvuyiten knew about it, so I thought I should contact you first…?
She sounded tentative. Salehi didn’t look at her. She had done well. Uzvuyiten didn’t know that S3 was running its own investigation of the Peyti clone DNA, just to make certain that everything was on the up and up.
Because of his focus, Salehi had forgotten that he had designated Jiolitti as the investigation’s contact.
I’ll meet you in my quarters in a few minutes, he sent.
He got up, muttered something about a shower break, and headed out of the room. No one paid attention. They were all as focused as he was.
He headed to his quarters which were on a different level. He hadn’t used them much. He barely thought of them as “his.”
He had the main stateroom on the ship—a large bedroom, a large sitting area, a full kitchen, and a decadent bathroom. He usually loved the main stateroom, but on this trip, it had been little more than a place to change clothes and catch a few hours of sleep.
He got himself an apple of a variety grown especially for S3, when he heard the chime that announced a visitor. He commanded the door to open.
Jiolitti stepped inside. She was a slight woman with shoulder-length dark hair that usually had another color running through it. Apparently, she had been too busy on this case to add that tint. The lack of it, and the fact that she hadn’t matched her eyes to her clothes like she often did, made her attractive.
Salehi hadn’t noticed that before.
Of course, it also added a few years to her face, which he appreciated.
She looked around. “No desert?” she asked.
He smiled. “No time,” he said, not wanting to explain that the desert spoke of relaxation to him. He probably wasn’t going to relax for years now—except on scheduled vacations.
She tilted her head, then ran a hand through her hair. It tumbled around her face. She stepped forward tentatively—”Living room?” she asked. “Kitchen?”—as if she wanted to know her destination before going any farther.
“Sitting room,” he said, giving the room the designation it had on the ship’s manifest. He grabbed some water for both of them and followed her into the sitting area.
It had no portals. It did have programmable walls that he had forgotten to program. The default program consisted of light paint and dark fake wood lintels, making everything a bit too heavy and a bit too Ancient Earth for his tastes.
He commanded the room to slowly give them sunlight and change the walls to show a country garden. The scenery would change as the conversation progressed.
“What did they send you?” he asked as he stopped in front of his favorite chair. It was large and comfortable, the only thing he never changed when he reprogrammed the room.
He tossed the apple in the air as he began to sit, and caught the apple as he got comfortable. Then he took a bite. He had forgotten how tart the company apples were, and thought—not for the first time—how appropriate that tartness was.
She eased into a straight-backed chair across from him. She watched his antics with the apple with barely disguised impatience.
“So far as our people can tell, the government of Peyla has nothing to do with the clones,” she said.
He wasn’t sure if tha
t was good news or not. He decided not to react to it. He would hear her out.
“Our investigators split into two groups,” she said. “First, we have a group who are retracing the clones’ movements beginning with the moment they arrived on Armstrong, and working backwards.”
He nodded. He knew that. It had been his suggestion.
“Then we have a group of investigators tracking down the DNA.” She folded her hands in front of herself. “I thought the second investigation would be simple. Someone had to be selling the DNA after all. But no one is. As far as we can tell.”
That truly surprised him. He allowed himself a frown. “Then where did the DNA come from?”
She sighed and glanced at the wall. It now showed a sunrise over some mountains that Salehi should be able to name. Of course, he couldn’t. He wished he hadn’t reprogrammed the wall, since it was distracting her.
“Where it came from is an actual problem,” she said.
He braced himself for something horrid.
Her gaze met his.
“Here’s how it goes,” she said. “Peyla doesn’t have as many identity theft problems as the rest of the Earth Alliance—something to do with the law-abiding nature of the Peyti or something. I think it has more to do with the fact that they’re anal about identity in the first place, so they have a lot of double- and triple-checks that make identity theft hard.”
He had remembered now why he had assigned this to her. She had an affinity for the Peyti. She always had. She had volunteered to coordinate work with the Peyti lawyers on various cases, and more than once, she had pushed for an S3 branch on Peyla.
The partners had always decided against it. S3 had been a human firm for generations, and no one in the firm wanted to admit that many clients appreciated that.
But many clients—particularly some old, staid ones—did.
“Don’t tell me,” he said. “The Peyti didn’t follow Alliance protocols in handling a dangerous criminal when they arrested Uzvekmt after the genocide in Qavle.”
The Peyti Crisis: A Retrieval Artist Novel: Book Five of the Anniversary Day Saga (Retrieval Artist series 12) Page 24
