Peacekeeper

by REEVE, LAURA E.

Matt woke up in a constraint chair, comfortable, but prevented from stretching. He was in a small interrogation room with featureless walls. No furniture, nothing on the walls, floor, or ceiling, existed in that room other than Matt in his constraints.

  A neutral AI voice asked him for his name, physical residence, message addresses, and ComNet account names, before asking him to state why he had visited Nestor. After Matt explained his business with Nestor, the AI asked him to recount his perceptions when he entered the flat and discovered the body.

  Matt answered accurately, aware that someone was reading his voiceprint for stress. They couldn’t record any other biometric data without serving him a warrant. They’d already taken their physical evidence; why did they need his perceptions? They’d gotten to the flat before Matt, probably responding to an emergency call from Nestor.

  But they didn’t get there fast enough. The vaunted LEF, the protection that many citizens depended upon, had failed for Nestor.

  Then the AI voice went away and the quiet was worse than the questioning. Hours passed, or perhaps it seemed like hours to Matt because his bladder demanded attention.

  "Hey! Somebody! I need to use the urinal,” he yelled.

  No answer.

  Time dragged by. He squirmed as much as possible in the constraint chair, but it didn’t help. When he couldn’t hold it anymore he urinated right there in the chair. The reclined seat and thigh supports absorbed it. In a short time, his trousers were dry and as sweet smelling as if they’d recently been cleaned.

  Matt clenched his fists. They could have told him the chair was like a pilot chair, but then he wouldn’t have gone through the torturous shame.

  The neutral AI voice questioned him again, using most of the same questions as before but with slight variations in phrasing and order. Matt had previously believed v-plays that had the detainee losing composure at this point were unrealistic. Whenever he’d donned the virtual equipment, he’d always picked the unpopular law enforcement roles to experience. Nowadays, v-play producers spent more time enhancing "bad guy” experiences and perhaps their work was more realistic than he thought, because he was so angry that he balled up his fists tightly and his voice shook. He was a witness, not a suspect!

  "What were you doing before you went to the residence of Nestor Expedition?” This was a new question.

  "Putting personal items into storage,” Matt said promptly, forcing his hands to open and relax. Since they could backtrack him through ComNet coverage, they would already know this.

  "What type of items?”

  Matt paused before answering. If they were asking him about the contents of his storage locker, then they hadn’t yet gotten a warrant to open it. That meant he wasn’t a suspect, regardless of how they were trying to frighten him into thinking the opposite.

  "If the Athens Point LEF can convince me that my locker is relevant, then I will willingly open it for them without a warrant.”

  After Matt’s answer, the AI was silent.

  With nothing for his mind to do but race around, he lost all sense of time. He wondered whether he’d been drugged. In the v-plays, everyone has privacy rights so they are informed if they’re being dosed. Did one have to be conscious when receiving the notification? He’d never looked into Consortium law on witness and suspect treatment. He’d never needed to. That had been Nestor’s area of interest, among others.

  Matt swallowed a lump in his throat. He’d known Nestor more than twelve years and just like that, Nestor was gone, cut out of his life. Unbelievable.

  A door opened and a man walked in. After the door closed, the wall became featureless again, removing anything a suspect could focus on. This wasn’t what happened in the v-play scenarios. First, the v-plays always had two interrogators enter, usually a man and a woman. Second, this man was thin and dapper, bearing little resemblance to the burly strong-armed v-play interrogators, except that he wore the slickly pressed uniform. No self-respecting crumb could possibly stick to this guy’s coat and trousers.

  "I’m honored to meet you, Mr. Journey.” He extended a hand. "I’m Chief Inspector Stephanson.”

  Chief Inspector, huh? Matt stared at the man’s hand in surprise. He tried to move his arm, and the constraint chair released his upper body. His hips and legs were still secured.

  "Why am I here?” What else could he say? Pleased to meet you? Not under these circumstances.

  "Have you checked your exposure ratings, Mr. Journey? You’ve gone above twelve percent.”

  Matt gaped. V-play celebrities would kill to get that sort of exposure. The feeds must have finally found the images from his G-145 data. That might also explain why the Athens Point LEF hadn’t yet moved to examine his storage locker or the systems on the Aether’s Touch. He’d attained celebrity status. It’d be fleeting, since net-think was so fickle.

  Stephanson waited for a response, Matt said, "I didn’t know that. Uh—I’ve been busy.”

  Matt saw disbelief flit through his cold eyes. Apparently, Stephanson couldn’t believe that Matt didn’t check his exposure numbers hourly like an obsessed net rat, as Nestor called those who spend endless hours wandering aimlessly about the indexes, thinking of themselves as informed.

  "We’re sorry for your loss,” Stephanson said, without compassion in his eyes. "But we’re holding you in protective custody. We think Nestor Expedition was murdered because of you.”

  "Why?” Matt felt a wave of nausea.

  "We don’t know, but someone wanted you to see his body.”

  Including the LEF? Were you measuring my reactions? Matt held his bitter comments inside.

  "Nestor has—had other clients. He did freelance work, beyond what he did for Aether Exploration,” Matt said.

  "Your recent discoveries have piqued the interest of many, if you look at the rise in your exposure. Our analysts have seen a rise in rants from fringe extremist groups that believe in Terran-centrist origins of intelligence.” Stephanson smiled thinly.

  "If his death was related to G-145, anyone would know that Nestor wouldn’t have a copy of the indexes. I’m the one keeping those. Besides, the data has already been released to the public domain.”

  Matt hedged while his mind ran wild. He needed time to sort this out. The strange remote sitting in his storage locker worried him. He could hand that remote over to Athens Point LEF, but if Minoans were involved in Nestor’s murder, what would the LEF do? Would this murder be hushed up and smoothed over?

  "Your friend managed an emergency command wipe, just before—or as—he was attacked. It scrambled his local system, but we know that a large package was sent to your ship.” Stephanson paused, not so subtly expecting Matt to volunteer illumination.

  Yes, what about that strange AI that Nestor hoped to transfer to the Aether’s Touch? Matt shivered. Nestor was obviously protecting the AI, as well as the data the AI had retrieved for him. Should Matt tell Stephanson about the research he’d commissioned? He’d asked Nestor to look into the regular payments made to the customs officials. Nestor had said it could widen—

  Ariane. Did this have something to do with her?

  "What?” Matt realized that Inspector Stephanson had asked him a question.

  "I asked what you were doing in storage before you arrived at your friend’s flat.”

  "Just checking on some expensive parts I had in storage.” The words were out and irretrievable, before Matt made a conscious decision to hide the Minoan remote from Stephanson. Now he was committed.

  "Would you be willing to hand over the package Mr. Expedition sent you?”

  This question meant Athens Point LEF couldn’t get warrants to search storage or the Aether’s Touch. Not yet. Matt missed Nestor’s familiarity with Consortium law. He usually didn’t think of the LEF as adversaries, but he certainly didn’t want them mucking about on his ship.

  "I haven’t had time to look at the package.” Again, Matt lied instinctively. Why? "If it looks relevant, then of course I’ll hand it over.”
>
  "Forgive us, but we’d like to be the ones determining the relevance.” Stephanson’s face creased again with that thin smile; perhaps he suspected Matt was lying.

  Matt closed his eyes and tried to think of nice things, fond memories, and not what had just happened to Nestor.

  "We can’t release you on your own recognizance because of your high exposure rating. You’re safer here under protective custody.” Stephanson’s final words grabbed Matt’s wandering attention. Protective custody. He remembered Nestor jeering at those words as he sat splayed in his control chair, watching several feeds. Protective custody is the new loophole for lazy law enforcement—it’s an affront to CAW privacy law, Nestor had said as he watched his favorite porn star led away by the Hellas Prime LEF, to only Gaia knew where.

  "Impossible.” This came out as a yelp, so Matt lowered his voice. "I have business to attend to, as you know. I demand legal representation.”

  "You’ll get all the representation you need within our custody, and you can continue to do your business. Protective custody facilities are quite comfortable and you’ll have access to your data through ComNet.” Stephanson was implacable.

  Matt wouldn’t have access to the AI that Nestor transferred: quiescent, hidden, and waiting within the Aether’s Touch. The LEF would probably monitor his comm and research for his own protection, no doubt. Once they processed and analyzed the public node data near Nestor’s flat, however, their interest in Matt should ease. If so, when did his protective custody end? Matt racked his brain, wondering whether he’d ever seen that porn star in public again. Since he didn’t follow that entertainment sector, he should have asked Nestor.

  At the time, Nestor had been apoplectic about the new protective custody provisions, purported to be used only for witness protection. Nestor had vowed to fight them through all his free-whatever organizations, but he’d also mentioned a defense. Too bad Sasha’s such a dumb-ass, Nestor said, since she doesn’t need a lawyer to demand—

  "I can demand transfer of custody, can’t I?” asked Matt.

  "As long as the receiving authority meets protection standards, and agrees to protect you by providing an acceptable security plan,” Stephanson said. "Athens Point facilities are comfortable and secure; I doubt you can find anyone else that can compare.”

  Stephanson’s tone meant he doubted Matt could find anyone that would go to the trouble. However, Matt knew somebody who was extremely dedicated, not necessarily to him, but to Ari. The man was an asshole, to be sure, but he always seemed to know where Ari was and he was always nosing around in Ari’s business. Matt’s safety and freedom guaranteed Ari’s job, didn’t it?

  "I demand transfer to AFCAW’s Directorate of Intelligence. Point of contact is Colonel Owen Edones.” Matt was pleased to see surprise on Stephanson’s face.

  The Karthage mess hall was busy when Ariane stepped from the tube, but the crowd was thinning. She’d waited until the initial rush after shift change had ended. Karthage offered two distinct buffets, as any respectable mess hall would. If Ariane went to the left, she’d go down the protected and ventilated side for crèche-get who couldn’t stomach anything that was seasoned with strong spices or, Gaia forbid, had planetary flora or fauna products in it. On that buffet, there were plenty of vat-fungus-based and hydroponically grown dishes throwing off steam that quickly rose into the vents. Ariane would probably find Matt’s favorite noodle dish—something he claimed had a wonderful array of flavors but which she found bland and unremarkable.

  "If you please, Major.” Jacinthe Voyage’s voice was sharp with impatience and Ariane stepped aside to avoid blocking the line. The tall woman quickly moved toward the left ventilated side labeled 100% STATION GROWN. Ariane turned right.

  Karthage shipped many of the ingredients for the planetary dishes from Hellas Prime and its primary moon, Hellas Daughter, which supported agriculture in controlled and protected biomes. Ariane read the labels before making her choices; dishes had their contents listed to assist cultural dietary restrictions.

  At the end of her buffet line came the advantage of being in the planetary food chain: beers, wines, and flora-based juices.

  Ariane hesitated. She usually didn’t have alcohol on assignment, saving it as a reward when her duty ended. However, the shift had been stressful and she wanted true, natural relaxation. She selected a beer with a label that promised "full-bodied flavor, with light tones of green altensporos, a grain grown in Southern Indigos, Hellas Prime.”

  She sat as far away from Jacinthe as possible, staying on the right side of the hall where the mélange of smells was comforting. She’d finished half her beer before she realized she hadn’t yet sampled her food. She could feel her stomach warming and absorbing the liquid. No longer having any appetite, she picked at the brown meat dish with gravy and chewed resolutely. Small bubbles formed in her beer and clung to the sides of the glass; she stared into the light amber fluid and lost herself, the sounds of the other diners fading.

  "Major? May we join you?”

  Ariane looked up and nearly jumped out of her chair. It was the fluid voice of the state prince’s interpreter, who hovered his tray over the table expectantly. Behind the interpreter stood State Prince Parmet himself, looking bored, as if he didn’t care where he sat. When she looked wildly around, she saw plenty of empty tables. Why did they want to sit with her?

  "Major Kedros?”

  It was disrespectful to ask them to find another table. She could say she was saving the five other places for comrades, an unlikely excuse because she was eating so late. Besides, she couldn’t find five people on the station that wanted to eat with a black and blue, although the Terrans wouldn’t know that.

  "Certainly,” she said. Astoundingly, the banal civility drilled into her from childhood came out of her mouth. She swallowed, feeling nauseated.

  Parmet and his interpreter sat down at the table, their trays an interesting contrast. The interpreter had only meat slices, raw as well as cooked, without gravy or adornment. Parmet had only cooked and candied fruits. Neither man had chosen grain products, fibrous roots, or vegetables, but Ariane wasn’t about to ask questions about their diets.

  "Pardon. Didn’t introduce myself,” said the interpreter brightly. "Dr. Istaga. Won’t confuse you with my full name. Nor bother you with its origins.”

  Ariane nodded. She’d read whatever Owen’s staff could dig up on every member of the inspection team. Rok Shi Harridan Istaga had doctorates in anthropology and political science. He had originally been part of the inspection team quota for scientists, but CAW had questioned his background for that role. The Terran overlords had immediately sent a revised manifest, shuffling the team and introducing another person. This time they listed Dr. Istaga as an interpreter. Ariane was interested that Istaga was important enough to keep on the inspection team for a military weapons facility, even though he had no military background.

  "Fascinating to have the chance to experience new cultures. Other religions.” Istaga apparently thought small talk required speaking in short sentence fragments. He fulfilled all of Ariane’s expectations for a mild-mannered and middle-aged academician, which made her immediately suspicious.

  "I expect so, Dr. Istaga.” She reached for her beer without thought, a reaction to get her through tedious conversation. She took a sip and savored it. She glanced at Parmet, and then looked away quickly. He ate his fruit and paid little attention to his interpreter’s chatter; he was concentrating upon her.

  "—in particular, the pervasiveness of Gaia-ism. Voice crying in the wilderness, giver of life, writer of DNA, et cetera. Pervasive among early colonists. Obvious backlash against patriarchal orders of Kristos and the small male-centric Mohammedan cults.” Istaga rambled on, while Parmet finished his small meal and leaned back.

  Ariane put down her drink and picked at her food, noting that Parmet was still watching her, his elbows resting on the chair and his hands meeting at the fingertips.

  "Are you a Gaia-
ist, Major?” The direct question from Dr. Istaga startled her.

  "I was raised as one,” she said. Her constructed identity meshed with her real religious and cultural background, so she couldn’t slip up with unfamiliar beliefs. Owen had been an artist, detailed and fastidious, when building her new life.

  "At this point in my life, I’m not particularly spiritual,” she added honestly.

  "Rather easy belief system. Sense of right and wrong, but gentle on retribution. How do you handle guilt, Major?” The mild academician’s eyes became sharp.

  "What?”

  "If your belief system doesn’t carry retribution, as Mohammedan cults do, or confession and forgiveness for bad behavior, as the Kristos orders, how do you cleanse yourself? How do you start over?” Istaga was unexpectedly speaking in full sentences.

  "Are you speaking of me personally, or in general?” Ariane noted that Parmet’s lids had lowered as if he was sleepy, but he still focused upon her.

  "Much more interesting to understand the personal aspect,” Istaga said.

  "Well, I was taught that the sending of Kristos and Mohammed to Earth—”

  "You mean Terra.”

  "Of course, Doctor, my apologies. I was taught that they were prophets sent by separate avatars of Gaia on Terra. When mankind dispersed into space, a planet-centric higher power didn’t provide—” As she spoke, she reached for her beer with a clumsy grope and knocked the glass with her fingers. The beer in the glass sloshed and she grabbed for it, only causing it to bounce off her fingertips and tip over toward the two men. The glass went down with a solid clunk and a sheet of beer spread across the table.

  Istaga slid his chair back and stood up. He clamped his hand on State Prince Parmet’s shoulder. Parmet shook his head as if shaking off sleep and pushed away from the table before beer dripped over the side.

  "I’m so sorry,” said Ariane, waving for the mess steward. "They’ll have this cleaned up quickly so you can finish your dinner. I should get some rest.”

  She stood up while Istaga protested that they were fine, it had been such an interesting conversation, he would like to know more about the teachings of Gaia—