by Piers Platt
“Not her,” Beauceron agreed. “Out of curiosity, what was the cause of death on that one?”
Whittier read the file. “A three-way tie between drowning, organ failure, and blood loss. Seems he was shot multiple times and fell off a boat. Body washed up a week or two later. Want me to search for something else?”
“No, thanks.” Beauceron smiled and stood up. “I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you again for doing this.”
“Anytime, Martin – thank you for the coffee. And good luck finding her.”
* * *
“This is a real pain in the ass,” Rath told Beauceron, when he walked back into the meeting room.
“A lot of police work is,” Beauceron told him. “But it’s what solves crimes.”
“What did you find?” Rath asked.
“A dead male contractor, but no females,” Beauceron reported.
Rath blew out a long sigh. “Good. She’s alive.”
“No,” Beauceron wagged a finger at Rath. “All we know for sure is that no bodies matching her description have been found since you last saw her. That doesn’t prove she’s alive. What do you have?”
Rath sighed again. “Three doctors that all disappeared for at least six months, all supposedly on charity work, but I can’t find much evidence that they went where they said they went. Most doctors post photos of themselves in action – you know, cosmetic surgery on a kid who was injured and couldn’t afford it, helping to build a new hospital wing in some rural area, that kind of thing. Two of them don’t have much in the way of social profiles, so I couldn’t find any of that. The third does post pretty regularly on social networks, but he only posted a handful of photos, way down from his usual posting activity.”
“Could just be bad data connectivity where he was,” Beauceron said. “But let me see.”
Rath pulled up the third doctor’s website, and scrolled through the timeline of updates. “Here he is. Dr. Soukhin, from Islabadan Memorial Clinic. He went about three years ago, to Xheshuan, in the Territories.” Rath reached the photos and stopped, letting Beauceron flip through them. “This is a field hospital they set up, then here he is at a real hospital … that’s some tribal ceremony.”
“He’s wearing the same shirt,” Beauceron said.
“Huh?” Rath took another look at the photos. “Yeah, he is – in a few of the photos. Different one in these photos, though.”
“But these,” Beauceron pointed to the screen. “They were posted nearly two months apart. The shirt is the same, and so is his beard – like he skipped shaving and wore the same shirt each day, exactly two months apart.”
“You think the photos were staged?” Rath asked.
“Let’s see,” Beauceron told him. He selected the photos and downloaded them, then opened them up in a photo management program. “The dates on the photos show they were taken a month apart. But hold on.” He opened up several advanced settings, scrolling through. “This is not the original version of the photo. Someone did some basic clean-up work on the photos, adjusting balance and saturation, typical post-production stuff. But the log shows the dates have been edited, too. On seven out of the eight files.”
“What does that mean?”
Beauceron sat back, rubbing his chin. “There could be a reasonable explanation. But I think there’s a good chance the Guild flies people to somewhere like Xheshuan for a week, poses them in photos with all the other medical personnel, so they can plausibly claim they went there for a while, then ships them on to your training planet. Then they give them all the edited photos and tell them when to post them over the coming months.”
“Where’s Islabadan?” Rath asked.
“Northern hemisphere – about a ten-hour flight by air car, with a stopover to recharge en route.”
Rath picked up his Forge. “I’m ready when you are.”
* * *
Dr. Soukhin’s office was small, but neat. His medical degree hung on the wall next to several diplomas and accolades, and below it were pictures of a famous actor posing with the doctor, smiling and shaking hands. On inspection, Rath even found a framed version of one of the photos Soukhin had posted online from his trip to Xheshuan. He pointed it out to Beauceron.
“Yes, I saw it,” Beauceron said. “Now sit, please – it’s rude to snoop, and he’ll be here any minute.”
“Am I making you nervous?”
“Yes,” Beauceron said. He pointed to the fake Interstellar Police badge he wore on his jacket, which Rath had built using his Forge. “This is bad enough as it is.”
The door opened, and Soukhin hurried in carrying a datascroll and a mug of coffee. He set the coffee down and shook hands with each of them in turn, favoring them with a thin smile. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m a bit rushed today, and normally people make appointments in advance. What can I help you with?” He turned to his computer and typed in a password, waking it.
“We’re just following up on a case at the request of some of our colleagues on another planet,” Beauceron told him. “We were told you did some charity work with a nurse by the name of Trijan Lynmer?”
Soukhin turned away from his computer, suddenly ignoring it. “The Xheshuan trip? Yes, I know Trijan well. Is she okay?”
Rath noted a slight tremor in Soukhin’s voice. He’s nervous already.
“I’m sorry.” Beauceron smiled apologetically. “I can’t share any of the details, it’s an ongoing investigation.”
“Oh,” Soukhin said. “Well, what can I help with?”
“Just tell us about that trip, please,” Beauceron said. He took out his notebook. Rath stayed focused on Soukhin.
“It was a while ago. I took about eight months off, and volunteered for the trip – it was through the Helping Hands Foundation, they’re a charity organization that arranges these kinds of things. We were basically just helping underserved communities in Xheshuan, basic reparative surgery stuff, nothing as fancy as what I normally do here. I can show you some of the photos, if you like.”
“We’ve seen them,” Rath told him.
“Okay.” Soukhin looked at Rath, taken aback.
Beauceron glared at Rath, then turned back to the doctor. “And you met Nurse Lynmer there?”
“Ah, yes. She was another volunteer. She wasn’t on my team, but I interacted with her from time to time.”
“What were her duties?”
“Typical nurse duties – assisting in surgeries, caring for patients after the operation, that kind of thing.”
“Were you compensated for your work on Xheshuan?” Beauceron asked.
Soukhin’s eyes flicked quickly between the two men. “Uh, no. It was charity work. They just gave us room and board.”
“Your private practice sure took off when you got back,” Rath told him. “Business really picked up.”
“I started advertising more broadly,” Soukhin replied.
“Where did you get the money?” Rath asked.
“My personal savings. I’m sorry, am I a suspect here or something?” Soukhin asked, frowning.
“Of course not,” Beauceron told him.
“I thought you wanted to know about Trijan,” Soukhin pointed out.
“We do,” Beauceron agreed. He cleared his throat. “Doctor, you seem like an upstanding citizen, so I’d hate for you to get implicated in this whole … situation.”
“What situation?” Soukhin asked. Rath could see the sweat on his brow.
Beauceron glanced at Rath. “You’re not the first doctor we’ve talked to, sir,” Beauceron said. “And some of the other doctors are telling us a different story about that trip.”
Soukhin opened his mouth to argue, but shut it as Rath fixed him with an icy stare. “We know who you were really working for,” Rath told him. “So think carefully before we go any further.”
Soukhin cleared his throat. “They told me if I told anyone anything – anything at all ….”
“They are not sitting in your office right now,” Beauceron remin
ded him.
The doctor licked his lips. “We flew to Xheshuan, but only for about ten days. After that a deep-space vessel took us straight from the surface of Xheshuan to the other location.”
“And where was that?” Beauceron asked.
“They never told us the name of the planet. We flew straight there, docked with a shuttle, and then they took us by air car to a floating platform of some kind, out on the water. When we left, they flew us back to Xheshuan, paid us, and then we caught flights home. They never said where we went. They told us not to ask any questions.”
“Who contacted you to make the job offer?” Rath asked.
“A friend, from medical school. He told me about the program, and when I told him I was interested, he told me to go onto a website – it was a numerical URL, not a web address, I don’t remember what it was. Anyway, I entered my information on the site, and about a week later I got a robo-call telling me I’d been accepted, and that I should plan on taking a leave of absence the following year, over a specific set of months.”
“And that’s the only contact you had with the organization?” Beauceron asked.
“Yes.” Soukhin nodded emphatically. “I’m not going to have to testify on this, am I?”
Beauceron shook his head. “No. If I were you, I’d keep this conversation a secret.”
Soukhin sighed with relief.
“But we may be back, if we think of something else,” Beauceron said, standing.
Outside the hospital, Rath jammed his hands in his pockets and sighed, waiting as Beauceron’s air car returned from the parking garage.
“A small victory,” Beauceron said, noticing Rath’s impatience. “We confirmed our theory about the medical staff.”
Rath tried to reply, but suddenly succumbed to a fit of sneezing. “Ugh, my throat is killing me.”
“Sounds like you’re getting a cold,” Beauceron guessed.
Rath scowled. “Fantastic. First time in eleven years.”
“Were you video-recording the interview?”
Rath nodded, distracted. “I told you it would be a dead end,” he sniffed. “The Guild is too careful about this stuff. We’re no closer to finding Paisen.”
“I think you need to prepare yourself for the likelihood that we don’t find her at all,” Beauceron said. “Forget needles in haystacks, this is like … finding a needle on a mountain made of hay.”
The car pulled up, and they climbed in. “I know it doesn’t mean much to you, but I owe her my life,” Rath told Beauceron. “I still think your theory that she got injured or arrested is a solid one.”
Beauceron punched in the coordinates for his apartment, and the air car rose into the sky. “It would explain why she didn’t make the rendezvous,” Beauceron admitted.
“So let’s confirm the theory,” Rath said. “Call your friend, let’s check the police database.”
“It’s not that simple,” Beauceron said.
“Why not?” Rath asked. “You didn’t have any issue getting your friend in the morgue to check stuff out for us.”
Beauceron shook his head. “I can’t go back in my station. I’m a pariah there now. I don’t mind being insulted or scorned, but I don’t want to expose my friend to that.”
“Okay, so I’ll go,” Rath said.
12
The knocking on Dasi’s cabin door was brisk and business-like.
One of the Senate Guards on the protective detail.
“Ma’am?” she heard.
Dasi fixed an earring in place as she finished dressing, then palmed the door switch open. “Yes?”
“We’ll be docking in ten minutes,” the guard told her. “They’ve reserved docking tube three for our use.”
“Tube three, got it,” she said.
Senator Lizelle and the three bodyguards were waiting at the tube when she arrived, along with his Chief of Staff, Inuye Garces, a short, stocky man with a salt-and-pepper beard. Garces had a reputation on the staff for being a stern taskmaster. Dasi had not worked extensively with him; she hoped to make a good impression on him during the trip.
Lizelle looked up from the news report on his datascroll when he saw her. “Good morning!” He smiled. “Sleep well?”
“I did, thank you, sir.” Through the hull, she heard the docking apparatus engage, and lock onto the spaceliner’s hull.
One of the Senate Guards was talking to a colleague over his phone. “Shuttle’s prepped,” he reported. “The spaceline is holding general passengers at the other tubes until we’ve disembarked, so we can proceed directly to the shuttle gate.”
Lizelle winked conspiratorially at Dasi. “They see enemies all around.”
“There are enemies all around,” Garces scolded him. “You know that, Charl.”
“Political ones, perhaps,” Lizelle allowed. “But I doubt any of the extremists in the Territories would bother going after me.”
“That’s probably what Senator Reid, thought, too,” Garces pointed out.
Lizelle shook his head in regret. “That was a tragedy. The investigation report can’t come soon enough.”
The pressurized door cracked open, then swung out of the way. A uniformed gate agent smiled at them.
“Welcome home, sir,” she said.
Lizelle thanked her, and then the protective detail hustled them off of the ship and onto the transfer station. They crossed several corridors, ducked through a service tunnel, and at last, emerged by the shuttle gate, where a member of the protective detail’s advance team stood guard.
“Here we are, sir,” the team leader told Lizelle.
“Excellent,” Lizelle said. “Your team’s work is the definition of professionalism, as always, Major.” He stopped at a viewing window, and took a long look at the gaseous planet below them, the brown and yellow clouds swirling slowly. Dasi waited several paces behind him.
“First time, right?” Garces asked.
“Sorry?” Dasi said, turning. “Oh, yes. I’ve never been on any gas planet before, actually.”
Garces shrugged. “Great for mining rare gases. Not so great for habitation. But a fitting place for a politician to call home.”
“How so?”
“Full of hot air,” Garces chuckled.
The senator’s shuttle bypassed Emerist’s primary spaceport and took them directly to the senator’s home, a massive, blimp-like vehicle floating in the upper atmosphere, buoyed up by clusters of gas balloons mounted under its hull. As they approached, Dasi saw that the structure’s top was open to the air, and covered with acres of manicured grounds, with trees, winding pathways, and even a small lake. The senator’s home sat on a rise at one end of the structure, looking out over the surrounding grounds. The shuttle set down in a landing pad cleverly concealed amidst a clearing in the trees nearest the house.
Dasi saw a crew member prepare to open the shuttle door, so she touched the arm of the Senate Guard sitting across from her. “The air’s breathable? I thought it was toxic.”
“Not up here,” he told her. “Lower down, it’s very toxic – the heavier gases are deadly. But they replaced the upper atmosphere with a human-friendly mix. Smells a little weird at first, but totally safe,” he reassured her.
“Thanks,” she said.
Emerist was warm and breezy, she discovered, and the air did have a strange tang.
Like the fizz when you first open a carbonated beverage. Despite the warmth, Dasi felt a shiver of anticipation.
The senator’s house was enormous. His private apartment was at the top, and included a rooftop garden, but much of the building extended below ground level, into the bowels of the airship, where several air cars were garaged, and the staff lived and worked. A maid showed Dasi to a room in the guest quarters, with a small balcony overlooking the lake. She showered and changed for the fundraiser dinner, and then wandered through the rooms until she found the ballroom, which was being readied for the night’s event. To her surprise, Lizelle was there already, standing at a small
podium on the stage, rehearsing his speech. He noted her presence with a brief nod, then continued. She pulled a chair out from one of the tables and sat to listen.
When he finished, she applauded politely, smiling.
“Old campaign trail habit,” he told her, waving away her applause. “I always like to rehearse in the same space I’m giving the speech. It was good?”
“Yes! But you changed the last section,” she observed.
“Yeah, it felt contrived,” he said. “I wanted to go with something more genuine.”
“I liked it,” she said. “I mean, check with Inuye, maybe, but I would go with the new version.”
“Don’t apologize for having an opinion,” he told her.
Dasi frowned. “I didn’t …?”
“You did. You felt you might be overstepping your bounds, so you checked yourself, and deferred to Inuye. That’s apologizing. It’s a sub-conscious thing many woman do in business settings, especially when addressing a superior. Have conviction!”
“Okay,” she told him, blushing. “I mean, I will.”
“Good.” The senator hopped down from the stage, rolling up his datascroll and the speech notes. “Now, let’s go over the guest list. I’m going to want you to steer some people in my direction over the course of the evening, and run interference on some others. Are you okay playing traffic cop?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“It’s a thankless job, so if I forget later on, thanks in advance. Now, where’s Inuye? I want his take on who to prioritize.”
* * *
Lizelle’s speech went as smoothly as it had in rehearsal, and Dasi watched the audience closely during the final section, noting that his revisions elicited the reaction he had hoped for. Amidst the applause, he stepped down from the podium and handed her his datascroll, winking at her.
Nice job, she mouthed, as the band struck up a jaunty dance number. Then the first of the guests approached, and she flicked the datascroll on, matching their faces with her guest list. She stayed by his side for the rest of the evening, sometimes indicating to Inuye Garces that he should intercept a guest, at other times stepping back to let them talk to Lizelle himself. She reminded him of their names as they approached, but soon stopped when she realized he had them all memorized.
