by Piers Platt
They heard the sound of the guards’ heavy boots running down the hallway toward them. Hawken’s eyes widened.
“You’re breaking me out?” he asked.
“Yup. Hold onto my shoulder,” Dasi told him, turning to face the open cell door. “Whatever happens, don’t let go.”
“What’s going to happen?” he asked, grabbing her shoulder.
The three guards skidded to a halt outside the cell, pointing stun pistols at Dasi and Hawken. The nearest guard gestured at Dasi’s holstered pistol. “Draw your weapon slowly, and put it on the floor,” he ordered.
“No,” Dasi said.
A panel in the ceiling opened up overhead, and four riot suppression drones dropped down into the corridor, hovering menacingly behind the three guards.
“There are three of us and four drones,” the lead guard said. “I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but you’re outnumbered, and you’re not going anywhere. Now drop your weapon, and get on the floor.”
“Ready, Jace?” Dasi asked.
“I doubt it,” he said.
The lights in the cell block went out suddenly, dropping them into pitch blackness. Dasi switched to infrared, where she saw the four drones open fire, squirting a foul-smelling foam onto the arms of each of the guards. The foam cured into a solid shell and encased their weapons before they could open fire. Dasi was already moving out of the cell, pulling Hawken with her – the foam smelled terrible, and the guards were gagging at its noxious odor. Dasi held her breath.
Feet, too, she thought, and the drones fired again, cementing the guards into place.
Hawken tripped over a guard’s foot in the dark, but he recovered quickly, and a moment later, they were hurrying down the hall. The elevator doors opened as they approached, bathing the lobby in light. Dasi saw several other officers running toward the door that led out of the guard station.
Lock it, Dasi thought, and she heard them slam into the door ineffectually, shouting.
The elevator doors started to close, but Dasi thrust her hand out, slapping them open.
On me.
The four drones appeared out of the darkness, looming into view, and joined Dasi and Hawken in the elevator. He glanced at them nervously. The elevator started upward, and then jerked to a halt, and the emergency lights came on.
“Was that you?” Hawken asked.
“No,” Dasi said. “They cut the power to this elevator. They’re trying to trap us in here.”
“Can you fix it?” Hawken asked.
The lights came back on a second later, and the elevator continued upward. “Yup,” Dasi said.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened onto the building’s lobby area. Dasi saw a group of nearly a dozen officers hurrying into positions by the front entrance, past the security gate.
>>>One of the guards in the cell block used his holophone to warn his colleagues, Six told Dasi. I am sorry I did not foresee the need to block cellular communications, too.
“Shit,” Dasi said. She saw several officers aiming their pistols toward the elevator, so she pushed Hawken back against the wall and jammed the button for the top floor. “Okay, new exit plan,” she told him. A pair of stun rounds flicked through the closing elevator doors and smacked off of the back wall of the elevator.
The top floor was full of plainclothes officers working at cubicles. Several looked up, and when they caught sight of Hawken’s orange prisoner jumpsuit, they stood up in alarm. Dasi grabbed Hawken’s hand and pulled him out of the elevator, toward the nearest fire exit.
“Just keep walking like nothing’s wrong,” she muttered.
“Hey!” a detective yelled, from behind them.
Dasi spun on her heel. “This gentleman and I are going to the roof,” she announced loudly. “Anyone that has a problem with that can take it up with my friends, here.” She sent two of the drones flying toward the gathering group of detectives, pulling them up to an abrupt halt several feet away. They hovered there, motionless, watching the detectives. The detectives raised their hands and backed up.
Dasi turned and pushed Hawken through the fire door, and then ran up a flight of stairs, before bursting out onto the roof of the building. With the two remaining drones following her, she jogged over to the edge of the roof and glanced down – six stories below, she could see the stolen rental car, parked in front of the building. Hawken joined her and looked over the edge apprehensively.
“What now?” he asked.
“What’s your weight?” Dasi asked him.
“What?” Hawken asked.
“How much do you weigh?” Dasi repeated
“Uh … one-ninety, give or take,” Hawken said. “Why?”
“Good,” Dasi said.
She pushed Hawken hard, and he windmilled his arms frantically, panicking. With a yelp, he lost his balance and fell over the edge of the roof. Dasi leapt off a split second afterward. She felt a jolt of adrenaline as the ground rushed up to meet her, but the drone appeared suddenly below her, and gently but firmly balanced her weight across its domed body. They came to rest just off the ground a moment later, and Dasi pushed herself off the drone, standing up next to her car. Hawken slid unceremoniously off of his own drone, landing on his butt on the pavement. He pushed himself to his knees, shaking.
“Jesus!” he managed, with a gasp.
“Sorry,” Dasi said. “I figured pushing you would be easier than trying to convince you to jump.”
She looked up. Through the windows of the building, the lobby was full of armed police officers manning the security gate, facing inwards toward the elevator bank. As she watched, one glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of them.
Lock the front entrance, she thought.
Dasi hauled Hawken to his feet and pushed him into the passenger seat of the rental car, then climbed in behind the wheel. Ten seconds later, she was heading back up the ramp, tires squealing as she rejoined the flow of traffic on the ship’s central artery.
Hawken twisted around in his seat and checked behind them.
“I don’t see anyone coming yet,” he observed, still short of breath from the fall off the roof.
“No,” Dasi agreed. “They’re all still stuck inside the building. But they’ll be coming after us in a few minutes.”
“Where are you taking us? The spaceport?”
“No,” Dasi said. “We’re going to a press conference.”
“What?” Hawken asked. He gestured down at his orange inmate coveralls. “Dasi, you just broke me out of jail, for god’s sake. Kind of defeats the purpose if you stick me up in front of a bunch of TV cameras right away.”
“It’s not your press conference,” Dasi said. “It’s Foss’s.”
“Ah,” Hawken said, nodding slowly. “Take the bull by the horns, I guess?”
“That’s the idea,” Dasi said. “Now, we’ve only got about five minutes before we get to the Senate building, so I’ll do my best to catch you up.”
She braked as the red lights of slowing cars appeared in front of them. Hawken frowned at the traffic ahead of them. “More like fifteen minutes with this traffic,” he noted.
“Wanna bet?” Dasi asked, grinning.
Up ahead, an electronic road sign flashed an emergency message: CLEAR LEFT LANE FOR EMERGENCY VEHICLES. Cars began pulling aside, moving to the right on cue. Dasi cut across the other two lanes and pulled into the left lane, then floored it.
37
The transport’s ramp lowered onto the tarmac of the landing pad, and a gust of hot, desert air blew into the ship’s hold, ruffling Jaymy’s light brown hair. Rath touched her cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb. He smiled at her, and gave her a final kiss, then turned and walked to the end of the ramp, where Beauceron stood squinting out at the sudden bright sunlight. An Interstellar Police cruiser sat idling on the pavement; Rath saw his lawyer, Mishel, and a police officer waiting beside it. Beauceron turned to face him.
“You’re sure?” he asked Rath.
>
“Yes,” Rath said. He held out his hands in front of him, offering them to Beauceron.
“I never wanted this,” Beauceron told him.
“I know,” Rath said. “It’s what I want.”
“You’ve paid your debt,” Beauceron argued.
“No,” Rath said. “Not yet.”
Beauceron sighed and cinched the handcuffs around Rath’s wrists. “Take care, my friend.”
“Goodbye, Martin,” Rath said, smiling. He stepped out of the ship’s shadow, into the brilliant sun, and walked to the police car without hesitation, stopping in front of his lawyer.
“Mishel,” Rath said.
“Hello, Rath,” Mishel said. He studied Rath, and then shook his head, frowning. “I would say it’s good to see you again, but …”
“Yeah,” Rath said.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” the lawyer asked him. “I can certainly ask for a delay, given your recent … ordeal.”
“No,” Rath said. “I’m fine. Mostly healed now.”
The IP officer opened the rear passenger door, and Rath took his seat. Mishel sat down next to him. They drove out of the spaceport, and Rath watched calmly as the city slipped by. Mishel remained silent, lost in thought, until they approached the courthouse.
“Take us to the back entrance, please, officer,” Mishel told the policeman at the wheel.
“No, it’s okay,” Rath said. “Let’s take the front. I want the people to know that I came back.”
The courthouse street was lined with media vans, their broadcast dishes pointed at the sky. The sidewalk was packed with onlookers, and Rath could see police officers manning the barricade up to the courthouse steps. The crowd was chanting something, but he couldn’t quite make it out.
The police car stopped, and an officer hurried over, opening Rath’s door. He stepped out onto the sidewalk, and an eerie hush fell over the crowd. Mishel stood up next to Rath, and eyed the silent crowd warily.
“After you,” he said, gesturing to Rath, his voice sounding oddly loud in the sudden stillness.
Rath nodded, and started toward the steps.
“I’m Rath Kaldirim!” a voice in the crowd cried out.
And the crowd took up the cry again, chanting in unison. “I’m Rath Kaldirim!”
Rath felt a lump in his throat. “I guess they saw the video from Jokuan,” he mumbled to Mishel.
“Everyone saw it,” Mishel told him.
* * *
Judge Aurmine entered the courtroom, and took her seat behind the bench. The noise in the packed room died down, as the audience waited, watching. She flipped through a screen on her datascroll, then looked up, and her eyes found Rath.
“Mr. Kaldirim,” she said.
Mishel stood, and Rath followed suit.
“We live in troubled times,” Aurmine told them. “During such times, mankind often relies on the law to provide stability. Leaders may die, governments may fall, but if their laws can be upheld, then perhaps our civilization will endure.”
She cleared her throat. “So I would argue that today, more than ever, it is critical that justice is maintained. And Arthin Delacourt deserves justice, does he not?”
“Yes, he does,” Rath replied. “And so does his family.”
“Indeed they do,” Aurmine agreed. “And it’s my responsibility to ensure that that justice is served. A jury of your peers has found you guilty of murdering Arthin Delacourt, and I have no ability to overturn that decision, even if I wished to. So you remain guilty of his murder, as charged.”
A murmur of discontent passed through the courtroom’s audience. Aurmine raised her eyebrows, and the audience quieted.
“… Your conviction stands, Mr. Kaldirim,” she continued. “So now we come to the matter at hand: sentencing. Precedent for cases like this would suggest that your crime warrants the death sentence, in lieu of life without parole.”
In the back of the courtroom, Robald Delacourt stood up suddenly. “This man took my father’s life,” he told the judge. “I can’t forgive him for that. But killing him or locking him away for the rest of his life won’t change anything. He doesn’t deserve either.”
“The court thanks you for your opinion, Mr. Delacourt,” Aurmine said, testily. “Please be seated. As I was saying, precedent demands a death sentence in this case. But I have decided to break with protocol, and sentence you to life without parole, instead.”
She banged her gavel, heavily, and waited while the loud protests died down.
“That said,” she continued, raising her voice, “given your voluntary appearance here today, and recent events elsewhere, it’s clear to me that you’re no longer a danger to society. So your sentence is hereby reduced to time already served. You’re released, Mr. Kaldirim – and I suggest you find a new line of employment.”
Rath felt Mishel wrap him in a bear hug. The lawyer was shouting in his ear, but Rath could barely make out the words amidst the cheering in the courtroom. The next few minutes went by in a blur. Rath found himself in a side chamber off the courtroom, signing several forms. Then a bailiff set a box in front of him. Rath opened it: inside were the clothes he was wearing when he had been arrested, the necklace he had bought for Jaymy, and his old Forge, in its battered carrying case. He smiled at it.
“I could have used you back on Tarkis, buddy,” Rath told the device.
The bailiff looked up from his datascroll. “What?” he asked. “Were you talking to me?”
“No,” Rath said. “Just talking to myself.”
Outside the courthouse, Mishel showed him to a podium lined with microphones, where District Attorney Anguile stood answering questions from a horde of reporters. Rath and Mishel stayed back, listening.
“What are your thoughts on the sentence Judge Aurmine handed down?” a reporter asked.
“I think life without parole was absolutely the right call,” Anguile replied.
“But what about the reduction in sentence?” the reporter demanded.
“It’s an unusual move, but entirely within Judge Aurmine’s prerogative. I don’t have any further comment on that.”
“Mr. Kaldirim’s a free man. Do you see this as a defeat for your office?”
“Not at all,” Anguile said. “My office fought for and won a conviction in this case. That’s a win in my book.”
A reporter caught sight of Rath. “Mr. Kaldirim!” she shouted. “A question!”
Anguile turned and saw Rath, then stepped aside, gesturing to the podium. Rath walked forward, reluctantly. Amid the glare of the camera lights, he pointed to one of the reporters at random.
“Why did you come back?” she asked.
“I missed my last sentencing date,” Rath told her.
The reporters laughed.
“Yeah, but why turn yourself in at all?”
“It’s like Judge Aurmine said. The Federacy is on the brink. If people like me keep ignoring the law, it puts our entire civilization at risk.”
“Did you know Aurmine was going to release you?” another reporter asked.
“No,” Rath said. “I was just hoping she would give me life without parole, and not death.”
“Were you ready to die?”
“Ready? Yes,” Rath said. “Eager … no.”
“What about the other murders?” a reporter put in. “The other forty-nine people you killed?”
District Attorney Anguile took a step forward, leaning past Rath to talk into the microphones. “Mr. Kaldirim was not on trial for those other alleged murders,” she said.
“But he confessed to them,” the newsman said. “Are you going to put him on trial for those, too?”
“He would have to be arrested for them, first,” Anguile replied.
“So are you going to arrest him?”
Anguile glanced at Rath appraisingly. “This man?” she asked, rhetorically. “This man came to the aid of the Interstellar Police when they needed it the most. He stood up and defended our Federacy against
foreign invaders, with no hope of remuneration or assistance. I’m not particularly inclined to arrest him. And I doubt you’ll find a law enforcement official who is.”
“Mr. Kaldirim, what now?”
Anguile stepped back, giving Rath the podium again. “What do you mean?” Rath asked.
“What’s next for you? What are your plans?”
“My plans,” Rath said. He reached up to adjust one of the microphones on the podium, but knocked it loose instead, and it tumbled down among the crowd of reporters.
“Crap, I’m sorry,” Rath said. He hurried around the podium, into the midst of the reporters, and bent over, joining several who were already searching for the lost microphone down on the pavement.
“No, it’s over there,” one said, impatiently.
“Where?” someone asked.
Rath went down on his hands and knees to help. Grumbling, the crowd of people shifted to accommodate the searchers.
“Can we get back to the questions already?” a reporter near the back complained.
The handful of reporters who had been looking for the microphone finally straightened up. Frowning, a woman near the front of the press box looked them over.
“Where is he?” she asked.
The reporters stood in shocked silence for a moment, looking around in vain.
“Son of a bitch!” one swore. “He changed right in front of us.”
Chuckling, Mishel walked to the podium. “I think we can assume my client is done with interviews for now,” he said. “But I’ll be happy to take any of your remaining questions.”
38
The podium was set up on the granite steps leading up to the main entrance of the Senate building. Behind the podium, an over-sized Federacy flag hung from the building’s charred and broken façade, draped across the structure’s wounds like a bandage. Two Anchorpoint fire trucks, now no longer needed, were parked on either side of the podium, and a large crowd of reporters, cameramen, and local citizens had gathered beneath the steps, waiting. Foss let them wait.
Waiting reminds them of their place.
Finally, when he deemed he had made his point well enough, he stepped out of the temporary field office that was being used to coordinate recovery and repair operations, and walked unhurriedly over to the podium. The cameras flashed immediately, but the reporters – previously warned by Shofel that this was to be a speech, and not a question-and-answer session – kept their peace. Foss flashed them a confident smile, and then looked up into the nearest camera, where the words of his speech stood waiting on the hologram projector. The light on the camera was green – he was live, being telecast to the entire Federacy. My first galaxy-wide address. He took a deep breath, savoring the feeling.
