by D. M. Pruden
“Yes, but I need to speak with your boss.”
“Is not necessary to disturb Mister Oskar at this hour. Tell us where she is, and after we find, we give you money.”
I look from one to the other and question my choice to come alone. Chambers wanted to join me, or at least send Schmaltz along, but I quashed that idea. Vostok doesn’t know them, and I wasn’t entirely confident they’d be safe.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I want to make another deal with him.”
“You are trying to cheat Mister Oskar?” Vassily tenses and looks like he intends to snap me in half.
“No, nothing like that. I want to sweeten the arrangement.” I carefully open the leather bag slung over my shoulder and let them peek at the contents.
“A load of antibiotics became available. I want to know if your boss would like to make a deal for them.” I abruptly shut the bag, prompting them to look at each other, confused as I expected them to be.
Vassily scowls. “Woman first, then deal.”
“Deal first and then the woman. This is just a small sample. The window to access the full shipment is very short.” To put a point on it, I slide the bag around behind my back. “Unless Vostok doesn’t need any more antibiotics...”
Gregor steps forward and extends his arm to show me the way. “We will take you to see Mister Oskar.”
They usher me through the labyrinth of tunnels at a faster pace than usual, forcing me at times to trot to keep up with their long-legged strides. I smile to myself, recognizing a tactic meant to throw me off my game when it comes time to negotiate with their boss. The poor buggers don’t suspect what’s up my sleeve.
The activity in Oskar’s office alcove is the same as on my day visits. People scurry about, packing boxes and labelling them for shipment to god-knows-where. At the centre of it all, Vostok sits, looking just as fresh as ever. I wonder if he sleeps, or if he runs his entire operation while on the stimulants I sell him regularly.
“Doctor Melanie, this is an unexpected surprise.”
“I like to be unpredictable.”
He smiles wryly as he stands. “So most people believe of themselves. Please, sit.” He offers me a chair at the nearby table then signals for one of his men. “We will drink, yes?”
I return his smile. “I hope so, but we need to talk first.”
He laughs. “Of course. What do you wish to sell me?”
“Actually, Oskar, I want to buy something from you.”
His eyelids narrow. “Oh? What might that be?”
The room is noticeably quieter as many of his people take more than a passing interest in our conversation.
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
He looks casually around the room. “This is private. What is your business?”
Swallowing the lump growing in my throat, I indicate Gregor with my thumb. “Your lads paid me a visit looking for something you lost.”
He chuckles. “Ah yes, they tell me that you possess information about where she is.”
“Well, not exactly.”
The smile slips from his face, and his eyes grow cold.
“I want to buy out her contract,” I say in a rush.
One of his eyebrows rises, and a smirk forms beneath his beard. He leans back in his chair and assesses me. “This, I did not expect.”
I shrug. “As I said, I like to be unpredictable.”
“Why do you involve yourself in this?”
That is the question I’ve asked myself a lot since the harebrained idea popped into my head.
I know nothing about Chloe. She might be a nasty bitch; god knows there are plenty of those around. Part of me only wants to view her as a patient—address her dehydration, malnutrition, and vitamin deficiency, patch up her bruises, and then return her to the only place she can get what she needs. Medically, there is nothing that I can reasonably be expected to do for her. The only—the simplest—solution is to turn her over to Oskar. How she got herself into her situation is really none of my concern, and I don’t owe her anything. I certainly am not responsible for rescuing her.
But another, more deeply buried piece of me sees her differently. When I consider her from that perspective, it is like looking at myself in a mirror.
My drug-and-alcohol-addicted mother sold her preteen daughter to a sex gang for two jugs of home-brew and a bottle of sedatives. I certainly didn’t deserve to end up in that situation, and if not for the intervention of my benefactor, I would likely be dead. Being the recipient of such grace, how can I turn my back on Chloe and expect to ever sleep again?
“I’m told her debt is fifty thousand.” I hate to couch it in those terms. The girl isn’t any more responsible for the debt he places on her than I am. This is a ransom negotiation; nothing more.
“There are additional expenses, such as food, shelter, protection...”
“Yeah, I get it. How much?”
He touches his fingertips together as he addresses me. “There are other interested parties searching for this woman. It would put me at a disadvantage to disappoint them.”
It is my turn to smile. “Oskar, I know you well enough. You wouldn’t promise something you could not guarantee delivery on. You didn’t know if you would ever locate her. That’s why you sent your boys to scour the city. You’re talking about the loss of upside potential, nothing else.”
“It is significant ‘upside potential,’ as you call it.”
“Give me a chance to make a competing offer.”
He smiles condescendingly. “I doubt that you can, but I will listen.”
I point behind me to the curtain that separates us from the squalor of the pit outside. “Currently, I supply you with the bare necessity of what those people require: vitamin supplements, painkillers, antibiotics. None of that addresses the real medical issues most of those people face. Living in lunar gravity is not kind to human physiology. Nasty things happen to bones, muscle, and connective tissue. If they lived up top, they might have a shot at getting some of that care from the charity hospitals. Hell, some of them might find work with the corporations and be set for life. But none of that is possible because they’re all illegal refugees.”
“I do what I can for them,” he says.
“And what you do is commendable, Oskar. But even with your generosity, many of them will not last the year. How many have you buried since you began this?”
His mood grows sombre. “Do you threaten to withdraw your help?”
“No, I’m offering to do more.”
He relaxes a little. “Go on.”
“It will take some effort, but I can find the drugs to address long-term skeletal degeneration. I can also access a tissue regeneration unit, microphages, vaccines, antivirals, and nanites. I can’t supply the kind of care the mucky mucks who live upstairs enjoy, but it will better than what the public clinics can provide. It will certainly be an improvement over anything they get now.”
He regards me with open skepticism. “You would do all this?”
“Only if you allow me to purchase the woman’s debt and a supply of the drug she depends on for her survival.”
He grins and wags a finger at me. “I knew she found her way to you. Very well, Doctor Melanie, we can work out a deal.”
He extends his hand, which I take. Oskar then signals for the vodka, and I realize I am in for another rough night.
Chapter Eleven
Carson rubs the fatigue from his eyes and sits back in the chair to stretch. It is well past midnight, and there are still two hours of surveillance feeds to review before he can retire.
It required securing the full cooperation of the Morality Police archive manager, but he managed to piece together the route by which he was taken to Vostok’s compound. Ancient blueprints and records from generations of construction and survey projects on Armstrong allowed him to produce a map of all the likely tunnels used by the gang. A few clandestine forays by some of his agents confirmed the existence of
many of them, and they are now all monitored.
It isn’t that he does not trust Vostok to hold up his end of the bargain; having an MP officer in his debt is far too valuable to him. But Carson has no intention of making himself more indebted than necessary. The ability to monitor Vostok’s comings and goings will pay dividends in the future.
Finding Chloe is the first and most difficult problem to solve, but a nagging insecurity gnaws at him: what if she can somehow identify him?
Since Cabot’s call, Carson mentally reviewed and took inventory of every loose thread of this unforeseen cock-up.
He is reasonably sure the men who delivered Chloe to Luna are no longer a threat. Cabot managed to track down and kill them all, and the fact that Carson still lives is proof that they did not implicate him. Of greater concern is the woman herself. She was sedated on her delivery, and Carson took every precaution to conceal his face in the unlikely event she regained consciousness prematurely, but uncertainty still nags at him.
To his advantage, she has no way of knowing who he is. Even if she was awake, he was an unidentifiable man who transported her to the late Bentley Ferris.
Shaking his head, he walks to the bar to pour a stiff drink. Forgetting his discipline permitted irrational worry to dominate his conscious thoughts. Closing his eyes, he centres himself and focuses on his heartbeat and steady breathing until the anxiety fades, replaced by a familiar calm.
Refreshed, he takes his drink back to the desk and returns to his review of the surveillance feed.
The tunnels are surprisingly active, considering their secret nature. Vostok’s people usually travel in pairs, coming and going with predictable regularity. Their absence from the compound is always short—less than two hours. The facial recognition software can find no identification files for any of them and attempts to scan their cortical implants to learn their identities reveals them to be deactivated. That can only mean Vostok’s ranks are filled with unregistered Terran refugees.
He considers arresting some of them on bogus drug trafficking charges to see what can be learned about Vostok’s operation but dismisses the idea. From what he saw in the cavern, their loyalty is absolute; they will die before they betray him. Despite the squalor they live in, Carson senses they are a tight-knit community that views Vostok as their benefactor, if not their saviour.
But what is Vostok’s game?
Who can say how many followers he has, or if that is the only compound that exists? What if he runs similar networks beneath every city on Luna?
The idea is staggering. How much would it take to motivate such a rabble to rise in revolt?
All this leads Carson Willis to the inevitable realization that Oskar Vostok is a very dangerous man.
He is yanked from his thoughts by an unusual event on the monitor.
A lone woman approaches the same corner he met Vostok’s men at only a few days ago. Her demeanour strikes him as anomalous, not only because she is unaccompanied in a seedy and dangerous locale, but by her casual confidence, as if she knows she is in no danger.
Fascinated, he continues to watch the feed as two men he recognizes emerge from the shadows and approach her. She greets each of them with a hug, and they speak and laugh like the best of friends.
He regrets not ordering an audio feed installed and makes a mental note to correct the oversight at the earliest opportunity.
They escort the woman, unhooded, through the concealed door and into the secret passage.
Carson rapidly switches camera to follow their progress. The three speak casually as they walk. The woman seems familiar with the route.
She differs from any of the other people associated with Vostok’s community. Slightly built, her clothing, while not currently fashionable, is not of the second-hand nature that most wear. While many of them show evidence of a hard, impoverished life, this woman is fit and healthy. Her build and obvious muscle tone betray she is from Terra; her easy gait suggests she’s spent some time on Luna and is adapted to the gravity difference.
The trio disappears beyond the last of the surveillance cameras. He forwards the feed until an hour later by the time mark, she returns, escorted by the same two men.
The expression on her face is relaxed—perhaps even satisfied.
Who is this woman? What is her business with Vostok?
Carson pauses the playback and zooms in on her face.
An attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties-—he can never tell with Terrans.
Did Vostok hire a prostitute to entertain him for an hour?
Doubtful; her bobbed auburn hair is cut in a style much shorter than current fashion. Wearing little makeup, she is attractive but not stunning. He has arrested too many whores to mistake this woman for one.
No, there is something else going on.
Vostok is a businessman, so perhaps she is somehow connected with his criminal network. Does she supply some part of his operation with vital intelligence or contraband? Is she a fence?
He accesses the facial recognition AI, and moments later, her identity folio comes up on the second monitor.
Melanie Corrine Destin, M.D.
A doctor? That makes some sense. He recalls seeing medical supplies when he met Vostok.
Recently immigrated from Terra and presently employed as a ship’s surgeon by Canto Corporation. Registered crew member of the independent freighter, Requiem, currently docked at Armstrong Station, berth 209-B.
That gives him pause. Numerous possibilities exist for Miss Destin’s familiar association with Vostok, ranging from smuggling to charitable volunteer medical aid to his community of illegal refugees. Her employment by a prominent corporation complicates matters.
Bringing her in for questioning is impossible. Besides the danger of raising the hackles of anyone at Canto Corp., she is obviously on very good terms with Vostok. Any action taken against her will create blowback, drawing attention to his actions from his superiors or potentially destroying his tentative alliance with the gangster. While Cabot’s daughter is still missing, Carson can’t do anything to jeopardize finding her.
His problem is that he’s run out of leads.
Vostok is the last person known to see Chloe alive and is still the best prospect for recovering her.
But Carson does not trust the gangster, and hates being helpless, especially when his own neck is on the line.
He studies the image of the doctor.
He cannot detain and question her in the conventional manner. That does not mean he should ignore the possibility, however remote, that she possesses information about Cabot’s daughter. Even if she only saw Chloe on a previous visit to Vostok, she might be able to supply insight to help move the investigation along.
Noting an address on the file, Carson shuts down the computer.
Tomorrow he will pay Doctor Destin a friendly call.
It may not amount to anything, but he has no other option.
Time is running out.
Chapter Twelve
My stomach is sour, and my head feels like somebody took a hammer to the inside of my skull.
Fortunately, I anticipated that Oskar might bring out the vodka again. I took the precaution of programming an anti-intoxicant response into my medical nanites. It isn’t something I enjoy doing, since it makes me want to retch.
From Oskar’s, I came directly to Requiem to inform Chloe of the news and gave her the pills she needs so desperately.
Now, I am on my way to my apartment to sleep. All I want is to strip off my clothes, lie naked on the floor, listen to some quiet music, and wait for the painkillers to kick in.
I drag my sorry ass into the lobby of my apartment complex and make my way to the elevator. A sign is stuck crookedly to the door, announcing the lift is broken again.
The fucking thing manages to crap out whenever I am in town, it seems. Or maybe it has never worked, and I am naive enough to believe that regular service will resume in the next few days as the notice promis
es. They probably tape a new one up at the start of every month.
Vocalizing my opinion seems redundant based on the obscene cartoon somebody has doodled on the sign.
Grinding my teeth and muttering under my breath, I tread the familiar path to the stairwell to make my way down the five flights to my level.
It is late in the day, and the cooking aromas from a dozen different ethnic recipes mix nauseatingly before assaulting my nasal passages. I suppose that each meal might smell appetizing on its own, but the olfactory cacophony that wafts about me during my descent is disgusting. Fortunately, the culinary attack loses potency the lower I descend, prompting a pang of sympathy for the poor bastards living in the upscale apartments up top. That compassion, of course, evaporates when I realize the rich assholes probably have independent ventilation systems in their units.
Exiting the stairwell, I follow the worn strip in the carpet to my door. As usual, half the lights in the hallway aren’t working, so I keep my eyes trained on the floor to avoid tripping over the spots where the carpet has lifted.
A movement ahead catches my attention, and I notice someone standing outside my apartment, watching me.
He doesn’t look like any of my neighbours, that I can recall, anyway. At first I think he might be one of the junkies who occasionally finds their way in. Generally, they are harmless and just looking for a corner in the hallway to crash for a few hours. I ignore them because it is less hassle than calling security and then having to fill out a report because the guy that is supposed to be watching the entrance is too stupid to come up with his own story to explain how they got inside.
As I approach, however, I soon realize that this is no derelict. He is just shy of two metres tall. The lone working light near my door reflects from the top of his balding head. He has a hard expression, like he doesn’t want to spend any more time here than necessary. But what unnerves me is his coat. He wears a familiar-looking black, knee-length overcoat that I’ve only seen a few times before on Luna. The guy is a Morality Cop.
