Blowback

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Zagrando knew he had to keep H’Jith focused on the sales part of the game to win this encounter.

  So he kept his voice calm as he said, “I am in a hurry, but I can always have my meeting and then return. I have time to consider my purchase.”

  H’Jith made a small grunting sound. Zagrando wondered if that was the J’Slik sound of surprise.

  “And if I don’t like your inventory,” Zagrando added, “I can always take the ship I came in. I at least know what its flaws are.”

  H’Jith’s tail twitched in what Zagrando was beginning to see as displeasure. His human friends would call that a tell.

  But Zagrando was not going to rely on it too much, because he had met other salespeople who had deliberately set up tells to mislead clients. Zagrando needed to remain focused on his own mission, so that he wouldn’t be distracted by H’Jith.

  Or by his need to get out of Hellhole as fast as possible.

  “I assure you,” H’Jith said, “my ships are as flawless as I can make them.”

  So the mention of “flaws” bothered him. Did that hit too close to home, perhaps? Was Zagrando sounding too canny? He didn’t dare, for this plan to continue.

  “I believe you,” Zagrando said—and he did. He figured the ships were as flawless as they needed to be for whatever purpose H’Jith needed them for. “However, I will stick to my personal policy. I would like to see your own ship.”

  “I do not have one ship,” H’Jith said.

  “Then I would like to see your favorite ship,” Zagrando said. H’Jith looked like it was about to say something, so Zagrando added, “and if you do not have a favorite, then I would like to see the ship you use the most for distance travel.”

  H’Jith sighed and its tail did not move. “I cannot talk you out of this.”

  “You can talk me out of it,” Zagrando said. “But you are also talking yourself out of a sale.”

  H’Jith folded its front paws in front of its multicolored chest. For humans that was a serene pose, but not for H’Jith. Zagrando had the sense that H’Jith was very agitated.

  “You are the first human I have encountered who strikes such a hard bargain,” H’Jith said.

  “Really?” Zagrando asked. “Because my species is known for tough deliberating.”

  H’Jith’s mouth opened just a bit, the second time it had made that movement in a situation when a human would have smiled reassuringly. Zagrando wondered if H’Jith was trying to mimic the human smile and failing, or if this open-mouth movement was the J’Slik equivalent of a cold smile in the middle of a negotiation.

  “Humans are not known for their toughness on Hellhole,” H’Jith said, using the human name for the starbase.

  “Surely, you do not call this place ‘Hellhole’ among yourselves,” Zagrando said.

  “We do not,” H’Jith said. “We like it here. Humans never do.”

  “Well,” Zagrando said, keeping his tone light. “That explains why there are so few of us here.”

  “It is your first time to Hellhole?” H’Jith asked, clearly trying to take the attention off their wrangle for just a moment.

  “It is my first time to…” and then Zagrando tried to pronounce the J’Slik name. He knew he had mangled the name from H’Jith’s small shudder, but H’Jith tilted its head again, apparently in surprise.

  “And you do not want to flee?” H’Jith asked this with something like compassion. Apparently, it had decided it would become Zagrando’s friend. And friends apparently understood how terrifying Hellhole was for humans.

  “I would prefer to finish my business,” Zagrando said calmly, “but it would seem that you’re not interested in selling me a ship. So I’m sorry that I wasted your time.”

  He turned, hating that airlock-thing. He hoped that it wouldn’t be like a real airlock, the kind of place that changed atmosphere with the touch of a button, because he was certain he was making H’Jith angry.

  “Wait,” H’Jith said. “I will show you my ship.”

  Zagrando stood for a moment, deliberately keeping his back to H’Jith. He knew how dangerous that maneuver was, but he used it as a gesture of either trust or naïveté. Or both. At least, that was how he hoped H’Jith would respond to it.

  “Which ship?” he asked, as if he were no longer sure he would take H’Jith up on the offer. “Your favorite, or the one you use for distance travel?”

  “I do not travel long distances,” H’Jith said.

  “Then how do you get your inventory?” Zagrando asked.

  “I am a broker,” H’Jith said. “Others come to me.”

  So most of the ships were stolen or abandoned, as Zagrando suspected.

  “All right then,” Zagrando said, and he slowly turned around. H’Jith stood with its upper paws pressed together, that nervous gesture that Zagrando had noted before. “Show me the ship you use the most.”

  “For travel,” H’Jith said. “I will show you the one I use the most for travel.”

  “You live on your ship,” Zagrando said with some surprise. “That’s why you didn’t want to show it to me.”

  “It is not fair to my family,” H’Jith said, and Zagrando got the sense that it was finally speaking the truth. It kept its family on a ship because it didn’t trust life here on Hellhole? Because it needed to escape quickly? Because it wanted its family to have an escape route?

  Zagrando stared at it for a long moment. H’Jith shifted slightly, clearly uncomfortable. If Zagrando were truly the man he was portraying, he would have visited H’Jith’s family ship.

  But he couldn’t be quite that ruthless, particularly with the idea floating in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to put H’Jith’s family at risk, either.

  “All right,” Zagrando said with as much reluctance as he could muster. “Take me to the ship you use for travel. Quickly. This negotiation has already taken too much of my time.”

  “It is my pleasure.” H’Jith bowed slightly. But something flashed across its eyes. Taking Zagrando to the ship was not pleasure. Taking Zagrando there was coercion. H’Jith wanted the money.

  And, Zagrando knew, H’Jith would make sure that Zagrando paid for this perceived slight.

  Zagrando had to make sure that would never ever happen.

  Twenty

  Flint picked up burgers and carried them into the First Unit of the Armstrong Police Department’s Detective Unit like he still worked there. The office looked different than it had when he left. It had more cubicles because more officers had moved up to the unit—not because more officers deserved promotion, but because Chief Andrea Gumiela had decided that she needed more investigators after Anniversary Day.

  He had never thought of Gumiela as visionary or even a good leader, but she had been right about that. And she had increased the call for more police officers. Somehow she had convinced the city to give her more money for scholarships and loans to the police academy.

  It helped that she knew the temporary mayor.

  He wound his way around the cubicles. The greasy scent of the burgers made his stomach growl. He’d splurged for real meat, from one of the cow farms in the center of the Moon. Expensive stuff, but not as expensive as the beef imported from Earth, brought on very speedy ships with tight schedules, delivering outrageously priced “real” food for the food snobs who thought anything Moon-grown or developed wasn’t good enough.

  It took him a few minutes to find Bartholomew Nyquist’s office, even though Flint had been there a number of times before. Flint had contacted Nyquist about half an hour earlier, promising him dinner in exchange for a discussion.

  Nyquist was the one who suggested the precinct.

  Either Nyquist was extremely busy with work, or he didn’t want to be seen with Flint. Or both.

  They had an uneasy relationship. It was based on respect: Flint knew Nyquist was one of the best detectives on the Moon and Nyquist knew that Flint could find anything. But Nyquist did not approve of the fact that Flint had left the legal s
ide of the job to brush against the shady side. Nor was Nyquist comfortable with the fact that Flint had paid Nyquist’s medical bills after a Bixian assassination attempt. The city’s health plan wouldn’t provide the funding for the kind of rebuild and rehab that Nyquist needed to remain a functioning member of society. Besides, Flint always felt a bit guilty about that attack. He should have seen it coming.

  Both men also had DeRicci between them. Nyquist was involved with her, but she often turned to Flint first in professional matters. It made both of them uncomfortable.

  But DeRicci was her own woman and she was going to make her own choices, no matter what each man said to her.

  No matter how senseless her choices were.

  That last thought came with a surge of anger, which Flint tamped down. If he were giving advice to Talia, he would tell her to wait to make a decision until her emotions receded.

  But Flint had a hunch these emotions wouldn’t pass. Besides, he felt the press of time.

  He peered into Nyquist’s office. It looked like the man had been sleeping there—and smelled like it, too. Nyquist was sitting behind a desk littered with food wrappers, old coffee cups, and a pile of pads. A crumpled blanket covered one end of a sagging couch, and a group of shirts had been balled up in an approximation of a pillow.

  Nyquist looked up at Flint, the circles under his eyes so deep that the scars from the attempted assassination—the ones that Nyquist refused to have removed—shone whitely against his skin.

  Flint held up the bag of burgers. “Let’s go to an interrogation room,” he said. “It has to smell better than this place.”

  Nyquist smiled, then stood up. He carefully made his way around the desk, apparently not wanting to dislodge the mounds of anything, and came to Flint’s side.

  “What couldn’t wait?” he asked.

  To the point, as usual.

  “I got some new information,” Flint said. “Noelle said I could tell everyone about it and run the investigation if I wanted to.”

  That much was true. Whether or not he would imply to Nyquist that DeRicci wanted Nyquist to investigate the clones was another matter entirely.

  “Wow, aren’t we becoming the most important man in the room,” Nyquist said.

  He didn’t sound bitter, although his words could be taken that way. Flint was glad they were discussing this in person rather than through links. He would have taken offense without the light tone Nyquist had in his voice.

  “Are you on the payroll yet?” Nyquist asked, and this time, the tone wasn’t light.

  Flint smiled. “You know I don’t need the money.”

  “Yeah,” Nyquist said, “although I don’t like being reminded of that.”

  Flint’s money, and the way he had gotten it, was at the heart of the disapproval Nyquist felt toward him.

  “But I wasn’t asking about money,” Nyquist said. “Payroll means you work for them. Have you taken the plunge?”

  Even though he knew Nyquist was brilliant, Flint was always surprised at how intuitive the man was. Nyquist had gotten to the heart of why Flint had arrived, without Flint saying a word.

  “No,” Flint said. “I’m never going to work for anyone again.”

  “Yet Noelle put you in charge of the investigation.” Nyquist pushed open the door to an interrogation room. It was one of the all-white rooms, which had nanoscrubbers to keep the filth off the walls. Someone somewhere had figured that sensory deprivation made criminals talk faster.

  It probably wasn’t true, but it sounded true. And people liked to do things that sounded true more than they liked to do things that were true.

  “It’s not that straightforward.” Flint put the bag on the table. He propped the door open, not because he minded the room, but because he knew that most of the surveillance systems kicked in only when the door was closed.

  Nyquist opened the bag and pulled out the wrapped burgers, along with the gigantic cups of coffee that Flint had insisted on. He’d survived on precinct coffee for too many years to ever drink it again.

  “You’re creepy, you know that,” Nyquist said as he unwrapped the burger. “You remember how I like my burger.”

  Flint smiled and took his. “I don’t remember. Talia taught me to keep a log of the things people like. She got mad every time I forgot.”

  Nyquist sat in one of the chairs. “That kid of yours has changed you.”

  “In a good way, I hope,” Flint said.

  “Jury’s still out.” Nyquist kicked one of the chairs toward Flint. “Sit down. I promise I won’t arrest you.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” Flint said with a smile. He sat down. He was surprisingly nervous. He made his decision to go around DeRicci and the first thing he did was talk to her lover.

  But Flint needed Nyquist. Flint needed Nyquist to move the police investigation in the right direction. Even though Nyquist wasn’t officially in charge, he had a lot of clout both by virtue of his personality and his closure rate. He struggled against authority—something he used to have in common with DeRicci—but he was popular among his fellow detectives.

  Flint unwrapped his burger. Juice flowed off it and onto the wrapper. Even if he spilled, the scent of the burger would not remain in this room. Unlike Nyquist’s office, this room smelled fresh, as if it had been recently scrubbed. It probably had—more of that sensory deprivation thing.

  “The reason I wanted to talk to you,” Flint said, “is that I found out something rather startling about zoodeh. The quarantined vessels aren’t the only source of it in the Earth Alliance.”

  He explained what Luc Deshin told him. Nyquist’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. He simply listened as he devoured his burger.

  When Flint finished, Nyquist said, “We shouldn’t have missed that.”

  “I know,” Flint said. “I feel the same way.”

  Nyquist nodded, his cheeks just a bit red. He seemed furious at himself. He took a deep breath, crumpled the wrapper, and set it aside for the recycler. Clearly, he was gathering himself, setting his emotions aside, forcing himself to concentrate on the investigation now, not on the mistakes of the past.

  “You still have informants,” he said, surprising Flint. Unlike DeRicci, who had demanded that Flint tell him the source, Nyquist knew the source wasn’t exactly legal, and didn’t seem to mind.

  “Yeah,” Flint said.

  “You keeping this one close to the vest?” Nyquist asked.

  “For the moment,” Flint said. “But I will tell you this: My informant has access to a lot of information. He wants to know the bomb components, because he think he can trace them through his networks.”

  Nyquist smiled slowly. “He wants to know the bomb components, does he?”

  Flint didn’t smile in return. He wondered if Nyquist thought the request naïve, if Nyquist thought that Flint’s informant would then use that information to build his own bomb. Flint was about to say something when Nyquist added,

  “We’d love to know the components, too.”

  “You don’t know?” Flint asked.

  “No,” Nyquist said. “We think all the bombers did what Ursula did. We think they attached something to easy-to-convert something or other, something that would become a bomb with the right trigger.”

  Flint nodded. He had heard some of that, but he figured he’d leave the bomb details to the bomb squads. “I’m sure the dome collapses didn’t help.”

  “We have no idea what we’re looking at.” Nyquist leaned back. “I even went back to the old warehouse from the first bombing four years ago to see if we missed anything.”

  “Had you?”

  “Hell if I know. What I do know is this: We’re never going to know what caused that bomb to blow, and we’re never going to know about the others. I think that’s deliberate. I think the Etaen issues around the first bombing and the appearance of those clones of PierLuigi Frémont were deliberate distractions, so we’d look the wrong direction. We looked in the wrong direct
ion after the first bombing, and we’ve been chasing our tails with this one.”

  Flint raised his eyebrows. “And you think that’s deliberate.”

  “So do you,” Nyquist said, “or you wouldn’t be here. What do you really want, Miles?”

  Here it was: the opportunity to tell Nyquist everything. Flint had to decide right now if he should trust the man completely or not.

  “We’ve been working on the clones, and honestly, getting nowhere,” Flint said. “We thought they were about PierLuigi Frémont, about someone using him to scare us all or to make this worse somehow.”

  “It’s not?” Nyquist asked.

  “Are you familiar with designer criminal clones? Order up your favorite criminal, the perfect one for the crime at hand?” Flint’s heart was pounding. Here was his gamble: Had DeRicci talked to Nyquist and sworn him to secrecy?

  Flint couldn’t quite imagine that. DeRicci kept secrets, exactly the way she was instructed to keep them. If she could tell no one, she told no one.

  End of story.

  “Designer clones have been around since cloning started,” Nyquist said. He was clearly thinking out loud. “Mostly it’s illegal. Not just because people try to pick parts and glue them together as if a clone is some kind of robot, but also because the truly famous people, the ones everyone wants to clone, own their own DNA. If they sell their DNA, the designer clone is legal. But most famous people never sell their DNA.”

  “Yeah,” Flint said. “And people like PierLuigi Frémont cannot be cloned. That’s an Earth Alliance law as well. If the criminal has not been rehabilitated, then he or his heirs cannot sell his DNA.”

  “Yet you’re saying someone is doing it, that this DNA did not come from the heirs.” Nyquist set his coffee down. “That it’s some kind of racket.”

  “Yes,” Flint said, waiting for Nyquist to catch up to him.

  “I should have gotten notification. All legal and security entities inside the Earth Alliance should have gotten notification,” Nyquist said.

  “I don’t think the cloning or the sales are happening inside the Earth Alliance,” Flint said.