The Peyti Crisis: A Retrieval Artist Novel: Book Five of the Anniversary Day Saga (Retrieval Artist series 12)

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  The bastard across from him had tried to kill him after all.

  “Hmm,” Uzvaan said. “I would have thought disbarment automatic after the commission of a felony.”

  Uzvaan was annoying him just enough to keep him on his toes. Which was a good thing; then Nyquist didn’t have to focus on the fact that Uzvaan had actually frightened him a week ago.

  “I suspect disbarment is automatic,” Nyquist said, “but you know how documentation works. Slowly, and sometimes not at all. So, ironically, I need to talk with you about Ursula Palmette.”

  Uzvaan made that screechy sound that passed for laughter among the Peyti.

  “I don’t give damn about Ursula Palmette,” he said. “Do what you want with her. I’m not her attorney any longer.”

  “Yes, you are,” Nyquist said. “You’re the attorney of record.”

  “For all I care, that dumb woman can rot in prison. Or be killed by the Alliance’s lovely death penalty.”

  Nyquist didn’t rise to that. He couldn’t. He had to play this one carefully, because he suspected that someone else was recording this. Once they realized that Uzvaan no longer represented anyone, this conversation was not privileged. At the moment, it was protected, but Nyquist had no idea how long that would last.

  “You need to release her to find a new attorney, then,” Nyquist said.

  “How do you propose I do that?” Uzvaan asked. “I have no access to nets here, no way to talk to anyone, and am allowed to interact only with those nameless faceless android guards that even now stand outside my little cell. I see they put you in a cell as well.”

  “Is this what cells look like on the Peyti side?”

  “No,” Uzvaan said. “This is a step up. I should probably thank you for the short reprieve. When this conversation is over, I go back to my ugly four walls and three squares per day. Apparently, humans run this prison. Because no one bothered to tell them that Peyti eat one large meal per day, and nothing else.”

  “Or maybe they don’t care,” Nyquist said. “I’m rather surprised that you do.”

  Uzvaan leaned forward, but his wrists—if the joint between his hands and his arms could be called that—remained in the same place. So apparently, he was locked in.

  “Why are you really here, Bartholomew?” Uzvaan asked. “It’s not to inquire after my health. You do realize that you would have died with me if somehow the Armstrong government hadn’t blocked my attack.”

  Nyquist kept his face impassive. Had no one told Uzvaan that most of the attacks failed? Did he not know that there were hundreds of other Peyti in this prison awaiting trial?

  “You aren’t the first who tried to kill me,” Nyquist said. “I doubt you’ll be the last.”

  He actually managed to sound nonchalant about that.

  “And you hold no grudge?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Nyquist said. Hadn’t Uzvaan heard the bitterness? Perhaps Uzvaan wasn’t paying attention to nuance.

  Not that it mattered. Uzvaan had finally opened the door that Nyquist wanted him to open. Nyquist could now say they were having a discussion that Uzvaan initiated, a personal discussion, not a legal one.

  Still, Nyquist couldn’t entirely let the comment about the grudge go. “I can’t say I liked you, Uzvaan. I’m not sure I like any lawyers. But I certainly respected you. I’m the one who recommended you handle Palmette’s case, remember?”

  “I do,” Uzvaan said. “I thought it curious, since she was your former partner. I couldn’t decide if you thought I was horribly incompetent or terribly competent. My ego allowed me to choose competent.”

  “I thought you were damn good,” Nyquist said. “I felt a little personal responsibility for Palmette’s version of crazy, and I figured I owed her a good counsel. Guess I was wrong about that good counsel thing. You took the case knowing you personally were going to finish the job she started.”

  “I had no idea what she started,” Uzvaan said. “She wasn’t part of my mission.”

  Nyquist suddenly hated the clear table that he sat at. Because he would normally have clenched a fist underneath the table to hide the sudden anger that surged through him.

  “It was a mission?” Nyquist asked. “Really? Because it seemed out of character to me.”

  Uzvaan tilted his head slightly. “Some would argue that it was entirely in character. By now you know that I’m a clone of Uzvekmt, I’m sure.”

  He spoke as if they were having an intellectual discussion, not talking about mass murder.

  “Me, and everyone else on the Moon know exactly who you are and what you came from,” Nyquist said. “Although, I gotta tell you, I’ve never been one to believe that biology was destiny.”

  Uzvaan sighed. Nyquist had never seen a Peyti do that, but then again, he’d never spoken to a Peyti in its own environment, without its mask on.

  “What do you really want, Bartholomew?” Uzvaan asked.

  Finally, Nyquist had worn him down. That surprised Nyquist. He had expected the discussion to take more work.

  “I want help with Palmette’s case, but you won’t give me that,” Nyquist said.

  “I have a hunch I can’t,” Uzvaan said as if he had no choice.

  “A hunch?” Nyquist asked. He decided to listen to each word that Uzvaan used. “It sounds like they don’t tell you anything in here.”

  “After I left the Armstrong Police Station,” Uzvaan said, “I was transported here with some undesirables, and some old friends. Since then, I’ve been alone. This is the first time I left my cell in more than a week.”

  So S3 hadn’t contacted the clones yet. Nyquist felt his pulse rate increase ever so slightly. That was good news.

  “So,” Nyquist said, making sure he thought through each word, “they didn’t tell you how many people were killed in your attack.”

  “No one was killed in my attack,” Uzvaan said, and now he was the one who sounded bitter. “You made certain of that.”

  Nyquist resisted the urge to smile. Finally, he had gotten an emotional reaction out of Uzvaan.

  “I meant,” Nyquist said, “has no one told you about the attack by all of the clones of Uzvekmt. Didn’t someone in the prison tell you about the death toll?”

  “They haven’t said anything. I would assume it was quite high. I ran into other of my so-called brothers over the years. There were a lot of us on the Moon. It would have been hard to stop us.”

  As quickly as that anger had spurted through him, it was replaced by a surge of elation. Nyquist allowed himself a small smile.

  “Every one of your so-called brothers was as successful at bombing as you were,” Nyquist said. It was a bit of a lie. Some outside the domes had succeeded. But Uzvaan didn’t need to know that. “They were also as successful as you were at killing themselves.”

  Uzvaan leaned back. His wide eyes closed for a long moment.

  Nyquist couldn’t tell if the news devastated Uzvaan or relieved him.

  So Nyquist decided to continue.

  “I have to be honest, Uzvaan,” Nyquist said. “I never thought of you as a suicide bomber.”

  Uzvaan opened his eyes. He moved his head forward in acknowledgement.

  Nyquist couldn’t tell if Uzvaan had taken that comment as a compliment or not. Nyquist wasn’t even certain how he had meant it.

  “Your life focuses down when you know it will end,” Uzvaan said. “I felt very alive at the end.”

  Nyquist hadn’t expected that. “But you don’t feel alive now?

  “Now, I’m in a legal purgatory,” Uzvaan said. “Your authorities know what I am. I have no rights under Alliance law. And yet, I’m a lawyer, with more knowledge than almost anyone about the way things work. I truly did not expect this.”

  Nyquist wished he understood the tones of the Peyti better than he did. He couldn’t quite assume that what he heard was wistfulness or sadness, even though he wanted it to be.

  Still, Uzvaan’s comment surprised him.

  “You didn
’t consider failure?” Nyquist asked.

  For the first time, Uzvaan spoke Peytin. It sounded almost rote. Nyquist hoped the words got recorded, because he didn’t know Peytin at all.

  Then Uzvaan blinked and looked away for a moment.

  Programmed? Nyquist couldn’t tell.

  “What did you just say?” Nyquist asked.

  Uzvaan’s eyes closed slowly, then reopened. “It is not important.”

  Which meant that it had been.

  Nyquist wouldn’t find out what Uzvaan had said until he listened to the recording—if he could listen to the recording.

  Nyquist had to continue moving forward.

  “I take that to mean you never thought you’d fail,” he said. “Strange assumption for a smart guy like you. Because you had to know that everybody fails the first time they try something.”

  Uzvaan leaned back, hands still locked in position. “No, they do not.”

  “You failed,” Nyquist said. “All of you failed. That can’t feel good.”

  Uzvaan sighed again. “It doesn’t feel anything. I did not plan to see the results of our action.”

  Nyquist let out an understanding “aah.” At least, he hoped it sounded understanding. “So,” he said, “you felt trapped by your destiny.”

  “No.” Uzvaan raised his head slightly. Nyquist had always seen looks like that on Peyti and thought they were adjusting their masks. He hadn’t realized until now that they were raising their heads with pride. “I felt like I was living two lives. The one I wanted, and the one I had been given. Both would end on the same day. I had always known that.”

  Uzvaan was a lawyer. He knew words were important. He knew admissions were important.

  Maybe DeRicci had been right; maybe some of the clones were willing to talk.

  That was certainly what it seemed like right now. If Uzvaan believed his previous lives had ended a week ago, he owed nothing to anyone—not his former clients or his former boss, and certainly not the ones who had created him for this mission.

  “Which puts you in a bit of a limbo now,” Nyquist said carefully.

  “I prefer to think of it as born anew,” Uzvaan said. “Or perhaps starting anew, since I was never born in the traditional sense.”

  That spurt of elation returned. Nyquist wished it hadn’t. He couldn’t let his emotions cloud this interview.

  “This new life of yours could be very short,” Nyquist said.

  “It could,” Uzvaan said, “although I don’t worry about that at the moment. I am more concerned with the way that my life has become small, and will stay small unless I do something.”

  He was opening a door. There was no mistaking that now.

  “What can you do?” Nyquist asked.

  Uzvaan tilted his head slightly. “I’m sure you know, detective.”

  “I’m also sure that I dare not make any assumptions,” Nyquist said with more honesty than he would like.

  “You came here to bargain, correct?” Uzvaan asked.

  “No,” Nyquist said. He knew he could not admit that. Uzvaan didn’t know that, because he didn’t know about S3, but he would eventually, and if Nyquist didn’t play this right, Uzvaan himself might change his mind about what he said. Legally, he could do that. “I came to discuss poor Ursula Palmette.”

  “Still, you are a detective.” Uzvaan was actually pushing this. Nyquist hadn’t expected that at all. “I presume you are investigating the attacks of last week. I will wager that you can make deals.”

  Nyquist didn’t agree or disagree. He didn’t dare. “What are you interested in?”

  “A full pardon in exchange for information,” Uzvaan said.

  It took all of Nyquist’s strength to contain the laugh of derision that threatened to overtake him. Uzvaan was asking the man he had tried to kill for a pardon?

  One of the things that Nyquist had always admired about Uzvaan the lawyer was his willingness to take risks. And he just took a big one.

  “That’s impossible,” Nyquist said quietly. “And even if it were possible, I wouldn’t tell anyone that you wanted it. Remember, Uzvaan, you were looking me in the eye when you tried to activate your fucking bomb.”

  “I have not forgotten,” Uzvaan said. “But you should remember that I am also a lawyer, and I know negotiation. I will start with what I want.”

  “All right,” Nyquist said. “You want to play it that way? I can do that. Because what I want is for you to tell me everything, and then die according to our laws.”

  His voice shook just a little. He regretted that. He wanted to sound calmer. But he couldn’t.

  “Obviously,” Uzvaan said, “neither of us will get what we want.”

  “Obviously,” Nyquist said. “And apparently, you’re not going to talk to me about Palmette, so I wasted my day.”

  He stood. Somewhere, there was a button that would notify the authorities that he wanted to leave. He wasn’t sure how long it would take them to retract the bubble. He hoped that standing was enough to signal that he wouldn’t play games.

  “What will you offer?” Uzvaan asked. “Or must you check with your bosses?”

  Uzvaan sounded almost desperate. Maybe he was desperate. He probably was. After all, he had said that he had the life he wanted and the life he had been given. Presumably, he had carried that bomb according to the life he had been given.

  Presumably, being a respected lawyer on the Moon had been the life he wanted.

  He would never get that back, no matter how hard he argued for it.

  “They’re not going to give you anything,” Nyquist lied. He remained standing. “You’re part of a plot to bring down the entire Moon. They won’t negotiate with you.”

  “You’re portraying them as fools, and I know they’re not, Detective.” Uzvaan leaned to his left, trying to adjust his right arm. He was pinned in; no doubt about that now. “You need information. I have some. I’m willing to trade it. I’m talking to you because you are my only visitor since I was brought here. I suspect you’re the only visitor I’ll ever have. I’m not trying to insult you.”

  Nyquist let out a small snort. “Good to know,” he said sarcastically. “I won’t take my attempted murder badly then.”

  Uzvaan bowed his head. “I’m not going to insult you with an apology—”

  “Why not?” Nyquist asked. His face had flushed. His heart rate had gone up. This was a mistake, a bad one. DeRicci should have sent someone else—anyone else.

  “Because,” Uzvaan said softly. “It was a condition of my existence.”

  “My murder?” Nyquist asked.

  “The deaths on the Moon,” Uzvaan said. “They were the price I paid for surviving.”

  “Surviving?” Nyquist asked.

  “Surviving.” Uzvaan nodded. “And that is all I will tell you without some kind of negotiation.”

  FORTY-TWO

  WHILE HE WAITED for Uzvuyiten, Salehi made some fresh coffee. He usually wasn’t a coffee snob, but he needed something to do with his hands. Besides, his quarters had been stocked with all of the premium foods and beverages blended exclusively for S3, done to impress the clients. Salehi had no idea if the clients were impressed, but it certainly gave him a lot of choices he wouldn’t normally have.

  Normally, he would have ordered whatever caffeinated beverage he could find from the bots that kept circling the library. But waiting for Uzvuyiten made him nervous, so he needed something to do.

  More caffeine was probably not the best thing—particularly since he couldn’t offer any to Uzvuyiten—but Salehi didn’t care. The coffee sounded good, so he was going to have some.

  He was nearly done using the old-fashioned machine, the one that purists insist he use and which came with the suite, a machine that boiled its own water to the correct temperature and then filtered it through freshly ground beans, when the door eased open.

  “Rafael?” Uzvuyiten asked.

  “In here.” Salehi grabbed a thick mug. He’d nearly burned himsel
f once before making coffee like this, and he had learned his lesson. The air filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed and, as he turned, he realized the scent was wasted on Uzvuyiten.

  The Peyti’s mask was no different than it had been an hour ago, but now, after the Peyti Crisis, Salehi always found his gaze drawn to the mask first. He wished he could stop it; Uzvuyiten probably thought the glance rude.

  Uzvuyiten climbed onto one of the seats near the eat-in table. His movements were jerky—the chair was a little too high for him—and he looked like a child sitting down in a place where he wasn’t allowed.

  “What’s so important?” he asked.

  “Has your government found the source of the DNA for Uzvekmt?” Salehi asked. He had decided, while he made that coffee, that he would be as blunt as he could with Uzvuyiten.

  Uzvuyiten’s large eyes seemed even more liquid than usual.

  “I would tell you,” he said after a moment.

  “Would you?” Salehi asked. “You want this case as much as I do. Finding where the source DNA came from might result in us losing the case.”

  Uzvuyiten opened his weirdly bent fingers just a bit. He seemed a little uncomfortable. His suit bagged. He hadn’t adjusted it like he usually did when he sat down.

  “Don’t play with me,” Uzvuyiten said. “What’s going on?”

  “We had our own detectives looking for the source of the DNA,” Salehi said. “They can’t find who made the Uzvekmt clones. But they did find out that the DNA wasn’t handled correctly in the first place.”

  Uzvuyiten’s head moved ever so slightly. Then he tilted it sideways. “Laws were different in those days. Peyla makes sure it complies with all DNA laws now.”

  So he knew that the DNA had been mishandled. Salehi felt his entire body focus, like it sometimes did in a trial. Each movement became theater. He turned and grabbed the handle of the coffee carafe. It creaked from the weight and the hot temperature of the liquid inside.

  “Have you found who sold the source DNA to whoever cloned those defendants?” Salehi asked, his back to Uzvuyiten. Salehi only knew how to interpret a few movements in a Peyti, so watching Uzvuyiten’s reaction wasn’t as important as watching another human’s would have been.