“Huh,” Salehi muttered, mostly to himself. “We might be able to find the masterminds before the authorities do.”
“Yes,” Uzvuyiten said in such a calm tone that Salehi came out of his reverie.
He stood. He obviously wasn’t the only one gathering information without the help of the other.
“You knew this when you brought us in,” he said.
“Technically,” Uzvuyiten said, “I did not, but the government officials who hired you did.”
“If all the government of Peyla wanted was the DNA, then they should have asked for that, rather than the custody of the clones,” Salehi said.
“The problem with you, as both a man and a lawyer,” Uzvuyiten said, “is that you often speak before you think.”
Salehi’s breath caught. He’d heard that accusation before, and he had done his best to make certain that he would change that side of himself. When he practiced regularly, he had curbed the tendency. But right at the moment, he was thinking aloud, and thinking aloud made him say somethings that made him seem incautious.
“If,” Uzvuyiten said, “the government of Peyla had simply asked S-Three to help them acquire the DNA, how would you have done it?”
Salehi almost answered that S3 would have asked for the samples to rule out any custody issues with the government of Peyla. But that might have opened the government up to liability. If it had clones of Uzvekmt somewhere or DNA and it hadn’t controlled the DNA or the clones, then the government might have been liable for the attacks.
“Now, you’re beginning to see the issues. By having the government claim an interest, and enjoining law enforcement from any further work until we arrive, we protect the government of Peyla.”
“And if we find the masterminds in the meantime,” Salehi said slowly, “we negate the liability before it can be raised.”
“Precisely,” Uzvuyiten said. “However, we have our fingers in, as you humans say, because we can also claim that these crimes had a negative impact on all Peyti, and so we have an interest there.”
Salehi let out an exasperated breath. “Why didn’t you just tell me this at the beginning?”
“And point your prodigious brain in a single direction?” Uzvuyiten said. “That would be foolhardy. You have already come up with several different plans of attack that none of us would have ever thought of. Your passion for clone law alone intrigues me, at least, and makes handling such reprehensible clients much easier.”
Salehi frowned at Uzvuyiten. Salehi hadn’t realized how much the clones disgusted Uzvuyiten until now.
Of course they did. The attempted mass murder, the potential suicides, the crimes were reprehensible enough, but they had been committed by Peyti, who always held themselves to a high ethical standard. More importantly, they had been committed by Peyti lawyers.
“Did you know any of these clones?” Salehi asked Uzvuyiten.
Salehi couldn’t quite believe that he hadn’t thought to ask before. It would be a logical question, particularly after Uzvuyiten’s mention of the Peyti law schools.
Uzvuyiten bowed his head just once, an acknowledgement that didn’t look nearly as awkward as his nods.
“I met just one of the lawyers, at least that I know of,” Uzvuyiten said. Salehi was glad that Uzvuyiten hadn’t mocked him for failing to ask the right question first. “We were on opposite sides as junior lawyers on a case involving a major Alliance corporation that had ties to Peyla.”
“Did you know this lawyer well?” Salehi asked.
“No,” Uzvuyiten said, “and before you ask your next question, I am taking this case personally, but not in the ways you think. I see no reason to defend these clones beyond the legal reasons you and I have already worked through. I do take several things personally. In particular, I am angered that the Moon’s authorities are using these events as an excuse to ban Peyti from their ratty little cities. I foresee great problems for my people in times to come if we do not find the masterminds—as you call them—soon.”
“The government of Peyla took a risk, hiring S-Three,” Salehi said. “It might make the Peyti discrimination worse.”
Uzvuyiten stood.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But that will only add to our ability to argue the case.”
“You think these clones know even more, don’t you?”
“I do not know what they know,” Uzvuyiten said. “I would not try to guess. I do believe, however, the sooner we can identify who created them, the sooner we can take some of the blame from all Peyti.”
“But you believe there’s Peyti involvement,” Salehi said.
“And human involvement,” Uzvuyiten said. “By traitors. As soon as we identify them, then the loyal members of the Earth Alliance, like the citizens of Peyla, will not be targeted any longer.”
Salehi bit back his response. Uzvuyiten understood some things about humans but not all. It would be easy for humans to blame only a single human criminal for his own actions and, at the same time, blame all Peyti for the actions of a single Peyti criminal.
“We’re not going to the Moon to work miracles,” Salehi said.
“Really?” Uzvuyiten braced himself on the wall as if he had momentarily grown dizzy. “Because it seems to me you want a miracle.”
“I do?” Salehi asked.
“You want the Earth Alliance to accept clones as equals,” Uzvuyiten said. “Which might have been possible two years ago. Now? After all these attacks? It’ll never happen.”
Salehi crossed his arms. “If the Earth Alliance unifies clone law,” he said, “then attacks like the ones the Moon suffered might never happen again.”
“Idealist,” Uzvuyiten snapped, and walked out of the room.
Salehi watched him go.
“Yeah,” Salehi said softly. “We both are.”
FORTY-FIVE
NYQUIST TURNED HIS back on Uzvaan. He could still see the bastard’s reflection in that weird clear bubble wall or maybe in the blue liquid. To Nyquist’s left, the two android guards stood in the tunnel, hands clasped in front of them, eyes watching his every move.
Could they see his distress? Did they understand it?
An apology from Uzvaan would have felt terrible, slight, an insult, like Uzvaan said. But refusing to apologize felt even worse. And putting his own existence above Nyquist’s—well, it was a good thing they weren’t at the precinct, because Nyquist might have tried to pull Uzvaan out of his chair—not because Nyquist would have forgotten that Uzvaan was cuffed to the chair, but because he would want the strain on Uzvaan’s slender twig-like arms.
“It is not personal,” Uzvaan said.
“Yes, it is,” Nyquist said.
“It was not meant to be. I did not know that I would have relationships with people on the Moon. I did not know that such things were possible.”
Nyquist could hear the pleading in Uzvaan’s voice. The bastard was trying to tell him something.
The bastard obviously had something to tell.
“I can’t make a deal,” Nyquist said. He did not turn around. “And I doubt I’ll be able to come back, now that you told me about Palmette.”
There was a long silence. The sketchy reflection of Uzvaan moved. His head was bowed, his body hunched. He had no idea that Nyquist could see him.
Uzvaan was broken; he was just doing his best to keep up a good front.
“Maybe,” he said, his voice still strong despite his posture, “you could argue for better living conditions for me?”
Not a demand any more. Uzvaan was begging. Nyquist hadn’t expected that, particularly from the arrogant lawyer he had known.
“I can’t do that,” Nyquist said. “You’re a clone. You’re lucky they’ve put you in a cell.”
He didn’t have to explain further. Uzvaan knew. He was property, and as such, no laws governed his stay here. He didn’t have to be fed or provided a place to sleep or even the proper environment. He had no rights at all.
Uzvaan didn’t say anything.
His posture didn’t change. For the longest moment, Nyquist thought their negotiation was done. And he would leave it at that; he would tell DeRicci that he couldn’t get information out of Uzvaan, but he had a sense someone else might be able to.
Then it would be their problem.
“If you change my status,” Uzvaan said, “I’ll tell you everything.”
“I told you,” Nyquist snapped. “I can’t do anything for you. You’re a clone.”
“I meant my clone status,” Uzvaan said. He had come to the only place that Nyquist could negotiate, and he had done it all on his own. Nyquist wished he could say he had planned it, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to utter the words first.
He didn’t want to offer the bastard anything.
“If I can get you registered in this prison as a Peyti, you’ll tell me everything,” Nyquist repeated, deliberately misunderstanding Uzvaan’s request.
“If you can get my status changed legally,” Uzvaan said. “If I permanently become Peyti, a true individual, I will tell you everything.”
“I can’t do that,” Nyquist said, and it was true. He couldn’t do it. But he had been authorized to do so, and he knew DeRicci could.
Still, he wasn’t going to give Uzvaan anything without having Uzvaan work for it.
“Your people can,” Uzvaan said. “I’m pretty sure the security chief, DeRicci, can do it without even approaching a court. I can—”
“You can do nothing.” Nyquist turned. “You realize that if I can get someone to grant this idiotic request, you’ll be tried for attempted murder. You won’t get a pardon, and you’ll spend decades—however long you bastards live—in this prison. Unless you’re put to death under Alliance law. Because every single species is going to want to try you for attempting to kill its people. Every single one. You’ll be the representative of the Peyti Crisis. All of the hatred that exists out there toward you clones will be directed at you personally.”
Uzvaan raised his head. Not all the way, not that proud look that Nyquist had seen earlier, just a tired movement, then a nod of acknowledgement.
“I have found, oddly enough, that I do not want to die. Your sense of me was correct, Bartholomew. I am not a suicide bomber.”
“No,” Nyquist said. “You’re a failed one. You tried to set off that bomb.”
“Yes,” Uzvaan said. “I did. It was a condition of my existence.”
“You said that before,” Nyquist said.
“I’ll say it again, and much more. If you can only change my status.” Uzvaan was begging again.
Nyquist shook his head. He prided himself on being an ethical man. An honorable man. He had come here to make a deal, one that would exchange information for changing Uzvaan’s status, but he could lie and say that Uzvaan had refused. Then Nyquist could destroy the recording he made, and it would be his word against an attempted mass murderer’s.
But he couldn’t do it. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t. Any more than he could have gone into that bubble-cell and broken all of Uzvaan’s too-thin limbs.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Nyquist said.
“You won’t regret this, Bartholomew,” Uzvaan said.
“It’s detective,” Nyquist said. “Don’t ever presume that we’re friends.”
“I do not, Detective,” Uzvaan said. “I realize what I’m asking of you.”
“Do you?” Nyquist asked. “Because I think you have absolutely no idea what this will cost me.”
And neither, deep down, did Nyquist.
FORTY-SIX
FLINT WALKED OUT of his favorite coffee shop. The latte he’d had sat uneasily on his stomach. The counselor, Llewynn, had recommended that Flint stop hovering over Talia. Instead, the man suggested that Flint encourage Talia to spend time with others, even if that meant Flint did not see her all day.
The idea sounded so easy, and it was so hard.
He had dropped her at the security office. She wanted to talk with Popova, and he thought that a good thing.
He wasn’t supposed to return for three more hours. He wasn’t certain how he could do that. He had investigating to do, but he was having trouble concentrating, particularly while he was focused on Talia.
The streets were mostly empty. They had been unusually empty since the Peyti Crisis. He wasn’t sure if that was because people were staying home out of fear or if so many businesses had closed that no one had any place to go.
Many of the nearby office buildings looked deserted. Only a handful of cars went by, some above him, others using the street itself. Usually there was congestion in this part of Armstrong. The quiet streets felt odd to him.
Of course, there were a lot of law firms in this area. He knew many of them were closed.
He had parked his car on a parking-allowed side street. He was nearly there, when Luc Deshin appeared on his links. Deshin used a hologram so perfect that if Flint hadn’t seen it form, he would have thought Deshin was standing before him.
“Is this a good place to talk?” Deshin asked.
“No,” Flint said. “I’m on a public street.”
“Well, get unpublic and contact me.”
Flint almost said that he didn’t take orders from Deshin, but before Flint could form the words, Deshin had winked out.
Flint sighed. He was glad for the short walk to the car, so that he could gather himself. He needed to regain his inner balance, or he would start making bad decisions.
He let himself into the car, then quickly swept it to make certain that no one had attached any chips, links, or listening devices. He realized in the last few days that he hadn’t been paranoid enough.
Or maybe it was just the image of Luc Deshin, reminding him that anyone could slide through his links.
Flint used the private encoded link that Deshin had set up for them. Deshin appeared before him, looking like Flint had driven the car through him.
Flint shrank the image and moved it on top of the dashboard.
Deshin looked powerful, even at one-tenth his normal size.
“So,” Flint said, “you have news?”
Deshin crossed his arms. He looked like a temperamental doll. Flint managed to repress the smile that loomed at that thought.
“I’ve gone as far as I can,” Deshin said. “And I don’t have the source of the clones.”
Flint’s urge to smile vanished. He cursed softly. “Another dead-end, then.”
“I didn’t say that.” Deshin seemed to be staring at something over Flint’s left shoulder. “I had time to think about this, because I didn’t want to contact you until I was certain my ship was clean and no one was able to listen in.”
Flint wanted to ask exactly where Deshin had ended up, but didn’t dare. Flint also knew the less information he had about Deshin’s search, the better.
“I found a source of Frémont clones. He appears to be the only one with clones on the market. But they’re fast-grow.”
Flint started to say that they didn’t need fast-grow, when Deshin held up a hand, forestalling him.
“They’re fast-grow because the DNA is corrupted. I’ve hit dead-end after dead-end after dead-end. The usual brokers have nothing. The truly scary brokers led me to this guy. The Black Fleet was nearby as well. Because of the attacks on Armstrong, everyone is now looking for Frémont clones.”
Flint sighed. A big event always did this.
“They won’t find any useful Frémont clones on the market,” Deshin said, “but that means the market in designer criminal clones based on mass murderers will grow, rather than decrease.”
Flint closed his eyes for a moment, thanking whatever god he could think of that he was no longer in law enforcement.
“I’ll let Noelle know,” he said, opening his eyes.
Now, Deshin’s hologram seemed to be looking directly at him. “I’d tell you to have her contact the Alliance, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Flint frowned. “So you did find something.”
“The guy who is selling the fast-grow clones collected DNA from Frémont on the day Frémont died. This guy had an assistant. Her name is Jhena Andre, and she works inside the Alliance, in some classified position.”
“You think she’s involved?” Flint asked. “Can’t you contact her to buy the DNA?”
“Here’s the thing,” Deshin said. “My guy already has. He could make millions on Frémont DNA, and she’s not selling. She’s not saying she has any Frémont DNA either. In theory, she just helped my guy collect the stuff. But he explained the procedure to me, and she had plenty of time to skim.”
“And corrupt the remaining DNA?” Flint asked.
“I doubt it. I think that has to do with storage.” Deshin had clearly given this a lot of thought. “I believe that she stored hers better than he stored his.”
“And this is based on what?” Flint asked. “A theory?”
“Weirdly, yes,” Deshin said. “In my world, when there’s money to be made, people flock to that area.”
In most worlds, Flint thought, but didn’t say.
“People have been flocking since Anniversary Day,” Deshin said. “They’ve been trying to buy these clones. They’re a proven commodity. They can follow orders. Decades of investment in their upbringing and training have paid off. I don’t know if you understand how rare this is.”
Flint hadn’t understood it. He hadn’t wanted to think about it. But it made a lot of sense.
“So,” Deshin said, “right now, whoever owns this uncorrupted DNA can make more money than I can even imagine—and I can imagine a lot. Everyone has been trying to find this DNA. Everyone. That’s why I had to wait to contact you. I’m pretty sure once my requests were known, I got followed.”
Flint shuddered, and hoped Deshin couldn’t see it on their links. To Flint—to any sane human—Anniversary Day was a horror. Deshin knew how the people behind these horrors worked, and could speak of them with complete dispassion.
Flint also knew how upset Deshin was about these attacks, and how he’d been willing to help.
But Flint couldn’t entirely understand how a man like Deshin—a man with a family—could delve into these worlds.
The Peyti Crisis: A Retrieval Artist Novel: Book Five of the Anniversary Day Saga (Retrieval Artist series 12) Page 29
