by David Weber
The woman stepped around the blood and opened yet another door in the corridor. This one led into another shop. Baked goods.
Where was everybody? The shop-keepers? The customers?
He glanced around furtively as they passed through the bakery, expecting to see the corpses of the proprietor, customers—somebody.
How could everyone just…be gone?
Lajos wasn’t accustomed to this sort of violence, but he wasn’t the least bit stupid. He knew the answer, it just took him a little while before he was able to accept it.
If the three killers hadn’t killed the witnesses, they’d either bought them off or brought pressure to bear on them. Either alternative—and they were likely to be combined—was in its own way a lot scarier than if they’d just shot the bystanders.
* * *
After passing through a maze of corridors, rooms, stairs, passageways of all kinds, they reached a room almost small enough to be a closet.
“We’re going to blind you now. Relax, there’s no permanent damage.”
Something was stuck to his forehead. An instant later, a translucent sheet blocked his vision in all directions except straight down. He could see his feet and perhaps ten centimeters of floor ahead of them.
“All right, let’s go.”
* * *
Eventually, they came to a halt. Someone touched his forehead and the translucent sheet vanished. Then, removed the device that had been stuck to his forehead. From the brief glimpse he got of the thing, it reminded Lajos of a large and very flat insect.
He looked around. The small room was a cell, about three meters by two, with one door. There was also a cot, bedding, a portable lavatory. And…
That was it.
The only other person in the room was the man. He was giving Lajos a cold, level stare that seemed somehow familiar.
“We’ve met before,” the man said.
“We have?”
“Once. It was in a café. You came in and sat at a table. Three colleagues of yours came in a bit later and sat at another. Two men and a woman. I shot and killed all three of them. My partner dragged you out from where you were hiding under the table and we took you into an underground passageway. I considered killing you as well, but since I wasn’t certain you were guilty of anything, I decided to let you go. My partner—I’m sure you remember him; short; wide as eternal damnation—punched you and knocked you unconscious.”
He stopped and studied Lajos. Exactly the way Lajos remembered the man studying him once before. With those black, black eyes. Which were now blue, sure, and the guy didn’t look at all the same, but Lajos didn’t doubt for a moment he was exactly who he said he was.
“What—what…” He took a breath. “Do you want from me?”
“The truth. No, that’s a silly way of putting it. Let’s say I want truths, plural. You are in fact guilty of sin. I’m not sure exactly of what yet, but I intend to find out.”
He pointed to the cot. “Get some rest. I don’t believe in torture, partly because it would demean my dignity and partly because it’s unreliable. People will babble anything to get pain to cease, and without a second source to check against, you never know whether it was the truth or not. I’m not much more partial to so-called truth drugs. First, because they’re aptly called ‘so-called.’ Second, because they have unpredictable results. Third, because some people—me, for one—have taken antidotes ahead of time. I suspect you have as well.”
He stepped back to the door. “I like to keep things simple. Here’s how it will be. Every few hours I will come in here and require you to tell me something which is true and of reasonably great importance concerning your identity, work and whatever else you think might placate me. If you do so, I will leave, not to return for several more hours. If, during any of those visits, I am not satisfied, I will kill you.”
And with that, he turned and began opening the door.
“Hey…Wait! How am I supposed to know if what I tell you is ‘of reasonably great importance’?”
“If you see your brains lying on the ground, you’ll know you fell short of your goal. I recommend you err on the side of generosity and largesse.”
Chapter 51
For more than two centuries, the central attraction in Franklin Tower’s Hugo de Vries Park had been its huge ice skating rink, the largest anywhere on Mesa. The rink was oval-shaped, three hundred meters long by two hundred meters at its widest dimension. There was a large island in the center of the rink where skaters could rest and enjoy snacks and beverages.
Surrounding the rink were various cafés and restaurants, as well amusement attractions and rides. The tallest was a ferris wheel, which rose sixty meters above the park’s floor. At the insistence of Mendel’s city authorities, each gondola had its own emergency contragrav, even though the wheel’s operation—indeed, its attraction—relied on simple mechanical principles that were thousands of years old.
Most of the amusement rides in Hugo de Vries Park were of antique design. That was part of the park’s attraction. There was even a merry-go-round.
This being a weekend, the ice skating rink and the park around it were full of people—somewhere between one and two thousand, by later estimates. Only a few of those people noticed the large containers suspended from the ceiling, more than a hundred meters above the floor. None of them were part of the park’s maintenance crew, so they had no way of knowing that until very recently there had only been three of those containers, not the four that were actually there on that day.
The three legitimate containers were simply air purifying mechanisms. The fourth one, which had been put in place a week earlier, was supposed to be another—so, at least, the park’s maintenance director had been told. He’d thought the whole business was silly, since the three purifiers they’d had for decades did a perfectly adequate job of keeping the park’s air clear. He figured someone in Mendel’s city government had probably been bribed to authorize another, a form of mild corruption that was hardly unknown in the city.
Of the small number of people who’d seen the containers, only two noticed when one of them suddenly dropped from the ceiling, a couple named Mark Lewis and Sheila Dawson. They spotted the falling object because their gondola had just reached the apex of the ferris wheel’s rotation.
Lewis stared at it, his mouth gaping. His wife had better reflexes. She leaned over and yelled at the people far below on the skating rink, who were directly under the falling container.
“Hey, look out!”
A cargo-handling tractor-presser device—basically, a high-tech cargo hook, a generator that could switch back and forth between tractor and pressor mode—had been placed inside the container. It now got kicked with an overload charge which ruptured the container, and the highly pressurized ethylene oxide within was explosively dispersed. That was followed, moments later, by an incendiary explosion which ignited the now-dispersed ethylene oxide.
As thermobaric weapons went, this was pretty crude. But the ingredients were readily available—despite being highly toxic as well as flammable, ethylene oxide had a multitude of industrial uses—and it served its current purpose well enough. Fuel-air bombs are highly destructive, and the effect is magnified if the explosion occurs in a confined space.
The enormous blast wave was enough to kill almost everyone in the park. Those closest to it were essentially obliterated. Those farther away were torn apart; those at the fringes remained more-or-less bodily intact but the internal damage killed most of them quickly.
The small number who survived because they were in some sort of shelter were the unluckiest of all. They had their lungs ruptured by the sudden vacuum produced in the aftermath of the blast as the combusting vapor cloud literally sucked the available oxgeen out of the air about them.
The force of the explosion also killed some people who were outside the park, if they were close enough to one of the entrances. In all, the death toll was later estimated as being somewhere between eighteen h
undred and nineteen hundred people. There would never be a precise count. Many bodies had not only been completely shredded with no recognizable features, but the intense heat of the explosion—close to three thousand degrees Celsius—had also destroyed even the DNA traces.
* * *
“—learn that indulging yourselves in idle amusement while slaves endure lives of unending toil—”
Harriet Caldwell was paying no attention to the broadcast being played over the Risk Assessment Division’s com. If it was genuine it was just more Ballroom-style drivel. But she didn’t believe that to be true; and, besides, she was completely absorbed in another effort to persuade her boss to think outside the box.
“—liminary reports indicate the fuel used was ethylene oxide, Tony. Ethylene oxide! Do you have any idea how dangerous that stuff is?”
Her supervisor, Anthony Lindstrom, had a long-suffering look on his face. “No; in fact, I’ve never heard of it. But I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me.”
“It’s a cyclic ether. It’s not only flammable at room temperature, it’s carcinogenic and mutagenic. The shit’s nasty. The only reason it’s available at all is because it’s used in a lot of chemical reactions—but like any really dangerous substance, it’s carefully monitored. You don’t just waltz into a pharmacy and order up a few barrels of the stuff.”
By now, Lindstrom was fed up with Caldwell’s obsession. “For fuck’s sake, Harriet! You don’t just waltz into a pharmacy—into any-Goddam-where—and order up a nuclear device, either. But the Ballroom managed to do that at Green Pines, didn’t they?”
She glared up at him. “You know what I think about that.”
“Yes, I do. You have convinced yourself that the combined wisdom of every analyst at the OPS—”
“They’re a bunch of stupid goons and you know it!”
“I will pretend I didn’t hear that. Their combined wisdom is completely off, according to you, and none of this—not Green Pines, not anything that’s followed—is the work of Ballroom killers. Instead…”
He gave her a peering, inquisitive look that practically dripped skepticism. “Instead you think we’re dealing with a hitherto-unknown band of seccy malcontents who have mysterious and presumably extraplanetary backers.”
“They’re hardly mysterious, Tony. Manticore and Haven have both made it crystal clear for centuries what they think of us, they are currently on a rampage, and we know they sent agents here a year ago.”
“Correction. You surmise they sent agents here a year ago. That’s never been confirmed or—” His com buzzer sounded and he glanced at it. “Hold on, I’ve got to take this.”
Caldwell could only hear his side of the ensuing conversation.
“Yes, Ma’am. But—”
“Ma’am, I really think—”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’ll get on it right away.”
He had an exasperated expression on his face. “We’ll have to continue this…discussion, later. That was Janine Riccardo. She wants us—that’s me and you; she specifically named you—to go to the scene of the blast and find out what we can.”
“But…” Neither Caldwell not Lindstrom really had the training for that sort of work—and none of the equipment, at least readily available. On the other hand…
Riccardo was the Director of the Mesan Office of Investigation, widely considered the planet’s elite police organization. She was also their ultimate boss, since they were one of the divisions within the MOI’s Domestic Intelligence Branch.
Part of the problem Harriet had been facing all along was that the MOI normally restricted its investigations to full citizens. In fact, it was prohibited by its charter from involving itself in seccy and slave affairs. Despite the charter, however, there was often not a clear line separating citizens’ criminal activity from that of seccies—and, much less commonly, slaves. So, it was customary for the Domestic Intelligence Branch to liaise with the Office of Public Safety and the Mesan Internal Security Directorate when intelligence matters crossed the line between full citizens and second-class citizens.
“Liaise with” is one of those phrases that can have a lot of meanings. In this case, the relationship was uncomfortable at best. The DIB was rather disdainful of the OPS and especially the MISD. Harriet’s attitude that they were “stupid goons” was widely shared in the DIB, even if most people would be more discreet about saying it out loud. For their part, the OPS considered the DIB a bunch of effete snobs who had no experience with the hard-knuckle realities of dealing with seccies.
The point being that, even if she’d been able to persuade her immediate superior that her suspicions were correct, it wouldn’t really have done much good. The OPS was directly in charge of the investigation of the recent string of terrorist outrages, and they weren’t likely to given any credence to DIB fairy tales.
The fact that Riccardo had specified Harriet herself to join the investigation, though, had to mean that she was aware of Harriet’s assessments and had at least some sympathy with them. And Riccardo, being the Director of the MOI, did have a lot of clout in Mesa’s power structure. If she roared loud enough, not even the stupid goons over at the OPS would be able to brush her off.
“Let’s go, then,” she said.
“We’re just wasting our time,” groused Lindstrom.
“Maybe not, Boss. And, anyway, orders are orders.”
“A pity I can never get you to see that when you’re dealing with me.”
* * *
“Let’s go-go-go, people! Dammit, get a move on! The early team gets the scoop!”
Xavier Conde was being an ass again, but his producer Vittoria Daramy had decided to go along with his latest hot-flash frenzy. From the initial reports they’d heard of the immense destruction involved in the De Vries Park explosion, she didn’t think the authorities would let them get close enough for any really dramatic footage. But, on the positive side, Franklin Tower was nearby and they could use the aircar they’d already leased rather than having to make special (and expensive) arrangements.
Personally, she thought they’d make better use of their time (not to mention money) by just plugging away on the documentary they were supposed to be making. But if she tried to put her foot down, they’d wind up wasting the day anyway because Xavier would have a hissy-fit. He did hissy-fits really well, and they always lasted for hours. Even if she did manage to get him back to work, he wouldn’t do anything worthwhile.
* * *
Since Lindstrom was in charge of the investigation, they took his officially-assigned aircar instead of Harriet’s. That was fine with her. As a DIB division head, Lindstrom rated an armored limousine. The “armor” wasn’t much, really, just sheathing to protect the occupants from small arms fire. But it was still a limousine which meant it had luxurious seating in the passenger compartment. It even had its own miniature bar, although neither she nor Lindstrom used it since they were on the job.
The only drawback was that the limo also required a chauffeur. Harriet was fond of driving herself—but Lindstrom probably wouldn’t have let her do so anyway. The one time he’d ridden with her he’d complained afterward that she’d overused the manual controls (which was true enough; she liked to drive) and that riding with her was dangerous (which it most certainly was not; she was a good driver).
Even that drawback had its advantages, though. On their way to Franklin Tower, she could use her com to find out more about the availability of ethylene oxide in Mendel.
* * *
Conde had wanted a private garage for their aircar, but Vittoria had seen no good reason for that additional—and in her opinion, quite frivolous—expense. There was no reason they couldn’t use the public garage like most people staying at the hotel.
Nor had she seen any reason to pay extra for valet parking, either. The hotel garage’s slidewalks were perfectly functional and merely standing on your feet for a couple of minutes or so was hardly a great burden. The newscaster had made a fuss over that issue als
o, of course.
As he did again today, as the three of them made their way toward their aircar’s location. The garage had been unusually crowded the evening before so they’d had to park their aircar in a far corner.
“The time we’re wasting here will probably cost us the scoop,” Conde complained. “Just a few chits!”
“Oh, can it, Xavier,” said the recording tech, Alex Xu. “First of all, I’m the one carrying all the equipment, not you, and you don’t hear me bitching about it. And secondly, in what alternate universe that you seem to live in is valet parking faster than getting your own vehicle? Those programs are about as primitive as they come.”
Vittoria thought quite highly of Alex. He didn’t have to put up with any crap from the newscaster because in his own specialty, unlike Xavier, Alex was considered top rate. If the newscaster tried to get him fired, Xu’s response would be “fuck you, asshole, I quit anyway”—and he’d have another gig the next day.
As they neared their aircar, Conde started complaining again. “For God’s sake! Is it too much to ask a hotel to maintain proper lighting in their garage?” He gave Vittoria an angry glance. “Of course, if you didn’t insist on putting us in the cheapest dumps—”
“Shut up, Xavier!” That came from Alex, who’d stopped abruptly. “Something’s wrong. Lighting doesn’t just—”
Two figures emerged out of the gloom, coming from behind a nearby aircar. A moment later, Vittoria spotted two more coming from different directions.
All of them were armed.
“’Shut up’ is excellent advice,” said one of the figures. “All of you would do well to follow it.”
She couldn’t tell the genders of any of the people, since they were all face- and voice-shielded. But the one who’d spoken was either a large man or a very large woman. Shielding couldn’t disguise sheer size.
She was terrified already, and the next words the person spoke didn’t help at all.
“We’re from the Audubon Ballroom, and if you give us any shit, you’re all dead.”
