Extremes: A Retrieval Artist Novel

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  Paloma had been trying to get him to buy her yacht, and he kept saying he didn’t need it. But it was state-of-the-art, and it was fast. Maybe not as fast as patrol ships, but he wasn’t even sure of that any more.

  As he headed out of his office, he sent a message for her down the links, and hoped that she, at least, would respond.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THAT TRACKER didn’t look good. DeRicci had never seen someone whose skin was so gray she looked like she was made of Moon dust. Her eyes had sunken into her face, and at times she swayed as she spoke.

  Still, she had conveyed a sense of urgency, and when they severed the connection, DeRicci knew she had to find Zweig/Tey before the woman succeeded in Disappearing.

  DeRicci’s stomach churned. She hoped that it was the tension, the coffee, and the pastries. The last thing she wanted was this virus, and she was going to get it if they couldn’t figure out a way to stop this thing.

  Van der Ketting and Landres had left during her conversation with Oliviari. Perhaps they were doing what DeRicci had asked them to do—she could barely remember what that was any more—or perhaps they, like her, could barely stand to look at the poor desperately ill woman.

  How many people in that medical tent were that ill? Were the doctors surviving?

  DeRicci didn’t know the history of the Tey virus, not like Oliviari obviously did (and wouldn’t it have been nice if the damn woman had registered with the city, so no one would have been surprised by all of this?), but DeRicci had had a lot of courses in emergency training for dome settings, and she knew that diseases, fast-spreading diseases, often took out the medical workers first.

  Oliviari had said that something could be done, and they were doing it, but DeRicci was never that optimistic. She would have to get into the middle of the planning too—no matter what the risk to her own health—just to make sure everything was being done right. Not that she was better at emergency management than everyone else, but she was the person in charge of this scene, and she did know how to run staff around.

  First, though, she had to contact Gumiela once again.

  DeRicci pushed aside the pastries and stared at the coffee for a moment. The bungalow was too hot, and it felt cramped, even without the two men in it.

  She slumped in a chair and turned on her links. Whistles, red lights flashing across her eyes, more emergency messages, half of them from Flint. Then the entire system flashed once, and winked out.

  DeRicci sat up, blinking hard. She tried to reload her links, but she got nothing.

  She had so many messages, they had overloaded her system.

  She cursed, got up, and used the wall unit as a public link. She couldn’t talk to Gumiela on it—someone might hack in—so she paged her instead, telling Gumiela that her links had crashed and that she needed to talk to her.

  Gumiela—or one of her little minions—could get the links back up quickly.

  Or, at least, DeRicci hoped she could.

  Then DeRicci’s handheld, lying on the table, beeped. Gumiela’s image was on the screen.

  Neat trick, that. DeRicci hadn’t even thought of using the built-in handheld links. They were redundant technology, left over from the days when most people had links.

  “I’m in the middle of your research,” Gumiela snapped—and her irritation didn’t even bother DeRicci. Everyone was on a short fuse. “I don’t have time to deal with problems you caused by shutting down your links.”

  “That’s not why I contacted you,” DeRicci said, “although I do need my links back up soon. I’m waiting for an important message.”

  Gumiela waved a hand dismissively. “Someone’s working on it.”

  “Good,” DeRicci said, “because we have another problem. The woman who caused all of this, Jane Zweig or Frieda Tey or whatever you want to call her is trying to Disappear again. She’s going to be leaving Armstrong, if she hasn’t already. You’ve got to shut down the ports.”

  “Noelle,” Gumiela said with no rancor whatsoever, “the last time I shut down the ports for you, the fugitive got away.”

  “She can’t get away,” DeRicci said. “She’s trying to destroy an entire city. Besides, the ports should be shut down anyway. We’ve got a health crisis. Isn’t anyone following the playbook?”

  “The mayor has opted to keep it quiet so far. We don’t have any proof that the virus has spread beyond the marathon site.”

  “And you won’t get proof until someone dies,” DeRicci snapped. “By then, people will have gone all over the solar system, infecting as they go.”

  “No worries on that,” Gumiela said. “The decon units at the port are set for the Tey virus.”

  “For incoming,” DeRicci said. “And that’s if the units work. I have good authority that they might not.”

  Gumiela ignored that comment. “All port decon units are set for the Tey virus and have been since they figured out how to kill it in the lab.”

  So she’d been reading up on it too.

  “Right,” DeRicci said. “That protects us from someone bringing it in.”

  Which, of course, begged the question of how Zweig had done it. She had probably brought it in privately. Smuggling was an easier step than murdering someone—and she’d already killed a number of people.

  “But what about the rest of the solar system? We’re going to be exporting this stuff.”

  “I don’t think so,” Gumiela said. “All Earth Alliance decon units are set for the virus.”

  “You hope,” DeRicci said. “Shut down the ports, Andrea. Imagine if we start a systemwide epidemic. Imagine. Then catch Zweig. There are pictures of her everywhere in the media. She wasn’t shy about that. I’m not sure how she’ll be leaving—train, private vehicle, spaceport—I have no idea, but shut them all down. And check the surface-vehicle permits. She might have left in the last few hours.”

  “If I were unleashing a virus on an entire dome,” Gumiela said, “I’d get out as fast as I could. She’s probably long gone, Noelle.”

  “Probably, but best to cover our asses. Please, Andrea.”

  “You’re not going to threaten to go upstairs again, are you?” Gumiela said.

  “If I have to.” DeRicci tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do I have to?”

  “No. It’ll be done. Let’s hope to God we catch her.”

  “If we don’t,” DeRicci said, “some other community will go through this.”

  And another and another. DeRicci didn’t want to think about it. She shut off her handheld without signing off again, and sent a message to Flint.

  She got only audio in return.

  “You promised me you’d check your damn messages.” He was in an aircar. She could tell from his distracted tone. Flint sounded like that only when he was driving. “I keep getting them sent back to me.”

  “It’s a mess here,” she said. “I’ve got reason to believe that Tey’s going to try to Disappear again.”

  “Try?” His voice rose. “She has, Detective. That’s why I’ve been trying to contact you. She’s in Extreme Enterprises’s space yacht. She got clearance and she’s taken off. I got Sheila Raye to send some space cops after her, to delay her, but I don’t have any authority to stop her. If I’d been able to reach you, we could have kept her in Armstrong.”

  DeRicci felt a flush warm her face. She was glad Flint couldn’t see her. She didn’t want Tey’s escape on her hands.

  “I just told Gumiela to shut down the ports.”

  “Too late,” Flint said. “Tey’s out and gone. Get ahold of Raye, have her authorize an arrest. That’s our only hope now.”

  “Where’re you?” DeRicci asked.

  “On my way to the port,” he said. “I’ve got a ship waiting for me. I’m heading out there to see what I can do.”

  “You’re not using your junker, are you?” she asked. “It’ll never catch up to anything.”

  “I’ve got a different idea.”

  “I’ll get permission for you to
ride with a team of cops,” DeRicci said. “They’ll get you into the middle of things.”

  “Thanks,” Flint said. “It’ll be my backup.”

  And then he signed off. Backup? Why would he use that as a backup? What was he planning?

  DeRicci didn’t have time to contact him in return. Instead, she used her handheld to link with the health department herself, to see if someone—anyone—was sending the portable decon units here.

  She wasn’t going to worry about the fugitive right now. That was Flint and Gumiela’s problem. DeRicci had something else to do.

  She had a lot of lives to save—starting with her own.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “THE FIRST DECON UNIT ARRIVED.” Tokagawa said.

  He put his arm around Oliviari’s back, holding her up. She hadn’t realized she’d been leaning forward, almost collapsed, on the desktop.

  “It’s just inside the dome. You go through our airlock and then into the decon unit. Come on. We’re going to get you there.”

  She looked up at him. The office was spinning, and the lights seemed to be blacking in and out, although Tokagawa didn’t seem to notice.

  Oliviari wondered if that was her. It was probably her. Nothing was working right anymore.

  “Is it the right specs?” she asked him, not moving.

  “Yes.” His arms were cradled around her. “Come on.”

  “Where is it? You can’t have it anywhere where you’ll mix the sick and the healthy. You’ve got to let the healthy congregate somewhere else.”

  “I know, Miriam.” His voice was gentle. “It’s just inside the dome. We’ve set up an area for the newly decontaminated to go. It’ll work.”

  “Good.” She leaned on him. She hadn’t expected him to be strong. He’d seemed so weak before.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “Only one unit?” she asked, her eyes closed.

  “For now. It was close. One of the warehouses had upgraded just last year. The others are portables coming from various parts of Armstrong. There are built-in units, too, but the city health department and I decided not to bring anyone through Armstrong to get to them. We figure we have about six units coming our way in the next hour.”

  “Six units.” It felt better with her eyes closed. “Seven with the one you have.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “At what? Three minutes a person to do the full decontaminate?”

  “I don’t know. Miriam, let’s go.”

  “You have to know,” she said. God, she was tired. “Triage, remember? Not everyone’ll get better.”

  “Especially if they don’t get into the units. We need you well.” He physically lifted her off the desk. Her legs felt rubbery. She wasn’t sure she could move even if she wanted to.

  “No,” she said. “You forgot what I told you. People with full-blown symptoms can’t get better.”

  “That was the earlier version of the units. They think it’s fixed with the modern ones.” His voice rumbled inside his chest. She could actually feel it vibrate as he spoke.

  “They think.” She used the last of her strength to push away from him. As good as it felt to have him hold her up, she had to show him she was still thinking clearly. And part of that was to show him that she was strong. “You’re gambling too much on something untested.”

  “It’s all untested outside the lab,” he said. “You’re the one who knows the most about this disease. We need you.”

  “Not anymore,” she said. “It’s out of my hands. We’re in new territory now. Just do what I said. Please. Save as many lives as you can.”

  He peered at her. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was damp. He wasn’t much healthier than she was.

  “Start with the people who’ve been exposed and only have a fever. Like you.” She smiled at him. “You haven’t sneezed yet, have you?”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped.

  Like she was fine. “Then go to the healthy ones. The people who have no symptoms at all. Then, only then, get everyone else.”

  “We can’t,” he said. “We have so many sick—”

  “Do the math.” She swayed, and put a hand on the desk to steady herself. “Seven units times three minutes times how many people? Divided by how fast this thing spreads. You’ll have deaths no matter what you do. More if you don’t follow my advice. Please, Mikhail—” His first name was Mikhail, wasn’t it? Oh, well. It didn’t matter. He’d get the idea. She was trying to be as familiar with him as she could so that he would trust her. “—Please. Triage. You’re going to lose a lot of people today. Make it the ones who’re already doomed.”

  He put his arm around her and steadied her. “Come on.”

  “Please,” she said. “Listen to me.”

  “I am listening to you,” he said. “And I will triage, but I’m getting you through that decon unit.”

  “So I can contaminate the healthy people if the virus doesn’t die in me? No.” She dug her feet in and wrenched herself away from him. “This is all my fault anyway. If I had caught her earlier, maybe followed her more closely, could prove that it was Tey—”

  “It’s not your fault. She’s crazy.” He reached for Oliviari again, but she moved out of his way.

  She opened the door and stumbled into the main part of the tent. The cots were still full, people were still coughing, sneezing, throwing up. The filtration units couldn’t keep up, and the stench was growing hideous.

  Oliviari leaned on the door, then let it swing her back into the office. “I’m staying here,” she said. “Come and get me when the first two groups have gone through the unit.”

  “That’ll be hours,” he said.

  She nodded. “I need the time. I’ll be all right. You’ll see. I’m only this dizzy because I’ve been pushing, but if I rest, I’ll be fine.”

  He studied her for a moment. He didn’t believe her; she could see it in his eyes.

  “It’s not your fault,” he said after a moment. “You stopped it. Without you, the entire city would have been destroyed.”

  She smiled at him, grabbed the door knob, and pushed him away. He stepped outside.

  “Do you want me to send someone?” he asked.

  “I’m a Tracker,” she said. “I prefer to be alone.”

  Then she pulled the door closed and slumped to the floor, head buried in her arms. She had lied to Tokagawa again. She didn’t prefer to be alone, but that was the life she’d chosen.

  The death she’d chosen.

  She closed her eyes, and let herself drift into the sleep that had been beckoning—knowing there was a good chance she would never wake up.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  FLINT HADN’T BEEN IN TERMINAL 25 in almost five years, and never to fly a ship out of the Port, only to arrest someone or to investigate a problem. Terminal 25 had gleaming walls and pristine floors. The odors of damp plastic and too many sweaty bodies that made the Port so familiar were missing from this place.

  Terminal 25 was the place where the rich kept their state-of-the-art space yachts. It was home to more illegal contraband than any other two terminals combined, and yet much of the contraband slipped right past the space cops’ noses here—probably because someone gave them credits, which made the space cops close their eyes.

  No one had ever assigned Flint to Terminal 25, knowing he would probably anger too many people. He didn’t believe in closing his eyes now; he certainly hadn’t then either.

  All the ships were down, grounded, so Sheila Raye said. She was in her office, handling the flak. The order had come from the mayor. All the ports were closed. But Flint had gotten special dispensation to leave—after he had gone through decontamination, losing even more precious minutes to make certain he wasn’t taking Tey’s virus off the Moon with him.

  Frieda Tey had managed to leave before the ships were grounded. The space cops had delayed her as much as they could by asking for registrations and identifications, and by making her run through all sorts of tests and con
ditions. She fulfilled all of them. Her ship’s registration was legal, her ID looked up-to-date, and she had kept her ship in top condition.

  Then the order had come down to shut down the Port, and the police identified Frieda Tey as a fugitive. Raye had been prepared for that. She had sent space cops after Tey, to catch her and bring her back to the Moon.

  Traffic could do that, even if the cops were out of their jurisdiction, so long as the crime was Moon-based and serious enough to justify to Earth Alliance. Tey met both conditions. Her crimes on Armstrong were serious enough that the space cops could chase her all over the galaxy and no one would complain.

  Once they caught her, they would bring her back here.

  If they caught her.

  Flint scurried down the loading ramp, showing the special dispensation Raye gave him each time he passed a traffic cop. They all nodded to him, even if they’d never worked with him, knowing who he was. Once he’d been their hero—getting a promotion to detective, moving out of one of the most dangerous jobs in the police department to one of the most glamorous—and he had given it all up for something most cops considered one step above criminal.

  Flint was certain the cops here wondered why Raye was helping him at all.

  He reached the edge of the dock and skidded to a stop. He’d never seen Paloma’s yacht—the Dove—up close before. It was brand-new, which startled him. He’d thought she’d owned it for a number of years.

  It was also sleek and pointed, built for speed, not luxury. He would have thought that Paloma would have gone for luxury, like she had done with her apartment.

  She hadn’t asked any questions when he had contacted her. She hadn’t seemed surprised either. She reminded him that she had given him the codes for her yacht when he’d bought the business, figuring that he’d have to take the vehicle from time to time.

  I’m charging rent, remember? she’d said, and left it at that. She hadn’t even asked what he was working on.