by Piers Platt
“Give it time,” Beauceron urged him.
“Fine. But I’d rather spend that time outside a police station, if you don’t mind.” Rath reached for the computer terminal power switch.
“No, wait – one more check. Close out of this, just go into the general search function and enter ‘Employee Files,’ ” Beauceron ordered.
“Why?” Rath said. He typed for a second, and an Interstellar Police logo flashed onto the screen, followed by a graphic showing an organizational chart.
“I want to see if we can find your recruiter,” Beauceron said. “Do you know what division he was in?”
“No,” Rath said. “I heard another policeman call him ‘Sergeant’ at one point, but he didn’t tell me his name or anything else. But I’d recognize his face.”
Beauceron guided him through another search query, and a list of two hundred names appeared on the screen.
“The following detectives are listed on active duty in the year 2402 on the planet Tarkis,” the computer reported.
“Show me ID badge photos,” Rath ordered. The list updated, pictures appearing alongside the names. Rath scrolled through the list, pausing to zoom in on a few faces.
“This is him,” he said. He clicked on the record. “Detective Kin Haas.”
“He took early retirement in 2405,” Beauceron noted.
Rath grunted. “He was getting a cut of my proceeds by that point – he retired off of my hard work, the smug bastard.”
“Well, he’s dead now,” Beauceron said. Rath hadn’t read that far on the screen, but clicked on the report for more details.
“Drug overdose,” Rath said, unnecessarily, given Beauceron was reading the same data through his visual feed. “There goes another potential lead. I’m shutting down before someone walks in here and starts asking questions.”
“Okay,” Beauceron said. “Meet you outside.”
Rath emerged from the interrogation room and was surprised to see Rozhkov striding down the hall toward him.
“Ah, good timing!” Rozhkov said. “I was just coming by to see how you were getting along.”
Behind Rozhkov, Rath’s enhanced ears caught the click of the viewing room door closing.
“All set, thanks,” Rath said.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Rozhkov asked, leading Rath back toward the elevator bank.
“Unfortunately not. But thanks again … I know this was unorthodox.”
Rozhkov smiled. “For a friend of Martin, no trouble at all. Please give him my best.”
“I will,” Rath said.
Back outside, Rath stopped, spinning in place while he looked for Beauceron’s air car. Then he saw it parked near the corner, and jogged over. He got in and exhaled – he realized he had been holding his breath for most of the journey out of the police station.
“I need a drink,” he told Beauceron.
“I think I do, too,” Beauceron agreed.
He took Rath to the biergarten, and the two picked a table in the far corner of the cobblestone courtyard, under the big oak tree. Beauceron ordered them two pilsners, and they sat in silence until the waiter returned.
“Thanks,” Beauceron said, taking his glass.
Rath took a deep draught of his beer, then set it down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “What now?”
“I don’t know,” Beauceron said, sipping his own beer. “Have you seen anything on your visual feed?”
“From Lakeworld? No.” Rath shook his head. “What if you came to Lakeworld with me? You might see something I missed, when I searched for her.”
“She was there – what? Four years ago? I doubt it,” Beauceron said.
“Maybe she came back and left a clue, and I just didn’t see it,” Rath pressed.
Beauceron picked at a splinter on the edge of the picnic table. “I think not,” he said. “I think our investigation may be coming to a close.”
“No,” Rath shook his head. “You’ll get your chance, I promise – when the time is right, you can parade me back into the station in cuffs. But not yet. Not until you prove to me we’ve followed every possible lead.”
“We have no more leads,” Beauceron said quietly.
“What would you do if this was a real case?” Rath asked.
Beauceron met Rath’s stare. “I would wait,” he said. “A case like this, a long shot – all you can do is wait, and hope that time changes the other variables that are in play.”
“So we wait,” Rath said.
“How long?”
Rath changed the subject. “What about other angles on locating the Guild?” he asked.
“The only other lead I know of is the mobile trucks they use to do the candidate screening,” Beauceron said. “But I am certain they no longer do that.”
“Why?” Rath asked.
“Because it’s no longer a secret. A journalist on Juntland that came to talk to me a few years back exposed that method, but they found out about his investigation.”
Rath sat forward on the bench, pushing his beer aside. “Wait, you know a journalist who’s investigating the Guild? Why don’t we reach out to him?”
Beauceron shook his head, “He’s dead. The Guild murdered him, his wife, and his infant son.”
Rath winced. “Christ. I don’t know what I would have done if they had ever assigned me a kid to kill.” Rath studied his beer glass, but put it back down, shaking his head. “I had to kill a woman once … it’s not like you can opt out, you know? They’ll just kill you, and send someone else – and the targets end up dead either way. I had to kill her lover first, and then her, and she knew it was coming … that I was going to kill her, too. And I could see the fear and desperation in her eyes. But she realized, after a certain point, that it was too late – that nothing could save her anymore. And the fear just turned into acceptance, and a kind of calm, like she had made her peace with it. I don’t know why, but that affected me more than anything else.”
“Would you do it again?” Beauceron asked.
“What, kill her?” Rath asked.
“No, the Guild – all of it,” Beauceron said.
“No,” Rath frowned. “Absolutely not. Maybe I would have been able to go straight, and get off the streets. More likely I’d be in jail back on Tarkis, or even dead. But I would have been able to live my life on my terms. Not theirs.”
Beauceron took a swig of beer. “Mehta left me a message before he died,” he said.
“Who’s Mehta?” Rath asked.
“Sorry – the journalist I knew, Ashish Mehta. He gave me the number to a safe-deposit box at his bank. He visited the bank on the night of his murder.”
“What’s in the box?” Rath asked.
“I don’t know,” Beauceron said. “I suspect, since he clearly wanted me to find the box, that he found something important during his investigation into the Guild, and put it in the box, before the Guild got to him.”
“So let’s go get the box,” Rath said.
“I’m not even sure it’s still there. The local police might have picked it up, or the bank may have thrown it out … it’s been several years, after all.”
“We can at least try.”
“How?” Beauceron asked. “The only way the bank is giving up that box is with a warrant. I can’t get one anymore; I doubt even Rozhkov could. I wouldn’t even want to ask.”
“Who said anything about a warrant?” Rath asked, smiling.
Beauceron frowned at him in confusion, and then realization dawned. “Oh, no. No, no, no. You can’t steal it!”
“I’m not going to steal it,” Rath corrected him. “Mr. Mehta’s just going to pick up the safe-deposit box that legally belongs to him.”
* * *
In his office, Rozhkov opened up his personal messages and clicked the button to compose a draft.
This afternoon, a man claiming to be a former IP detective, now acting as a private investigator, accessed several IP databases at my station. I have attached a sec
urity photo of the individual – note that his face is not a match for any known IP personnel, past or present. Based on his search parameters, his investigation appeared to be focused on finding a female guildsman who might have been injured or arrested in the past four years. As best I can tell, his search yielded no results. I will report any updates as I get them.
Rozhkov read over the draft, checking to ensure that nothing in the report pointed toward Beauceron. His finger hovered over the Send button for a minute, and then he pressed it.
14
Paisen steered the sled around the final turn onto the approach road, and caught sight of the decon shed and the familiar compound beyond it.
Home sweet home, Paisen thought, and on cue, Grip joked, “Home sweet home!”
Just like he does every time we come back from the city.
They guided the sled Grip had named Agnes into an empty washing station, and Paisen grabbed a power washer handle off the wall, waiting while Grip went to work first with the chemical sprayer. It took them nearly two hours to clean their items and load them on the conveyor belt; when they were finished, Paisen hung up the wand and stretched her back, trying to work out a cramp her hemobots had not been able to prevent.
“Good haul,” Grip observed, pocketing his work gloves. “That’s the fourth in a row. You’re good luck, Potfin. You eatin’?”
Paisen shook her head. “I’m going to shower first.”
She glanced up at a viewscreen mounted on the wall behind a protective case, which displayed a chart of the colony’s total monthly progress toward their scrap quota. The facility was well behind, despite Grip’s enthusiasm. She sighed and tucked her work gloves into her belt.
In the barracks, Paisen dropped her gear back on her bunk, then took her toiletry kit to the showers. The piping hot water quickly rinsed the grime of the city off, but the sharp odor from the decontamination chemicals lingered even after she had toweled off. At the cafeteria, Grip had finished his meal and was sipping a mug of coffee when Paisen slid her food tray onto the table across from him.
“Soy loaf tonight,” he observed, with sympathy. “Ain’t much better than a ration bar.”
“It’s hot,” Paisen said.
“I ran into a guy I used to go out with,” Grip recounted, shaking more sugar into his coffee. “He said there’s a way through that radiation pocket we ran into the trip before last.”
“Oh?” Paisen said. “The one by the river?”
“Mm,” Grip said, but a shout from the serving line interrupted them, and they looked up. A woman flanked by two large men had cut the line of inmates waiting for their food. She wore a large knife on her belt, and both of the men carried axes. As Paisen watched, the woman set a duffel bag on the serving counter.
“Fill it,” she demanded. “Your freshest produce. Now.”
“Shit,” Grip observed quietly. “Warriors.”
“Here?” Paisen asked.
Grip nodded. “They come in to steal food every so often.”
Paisen watched as several inmates brought trays of fresh produce out of the kitchen and began dumping them into the woman’s duffel bag. When it was full, she pointed at a pile of empty bags on the floor. “I didn’t say to stop.” The inmates hurried to comply.
“She’s going to pick a couple inmates to carry those bags back to their base,” Grip whispered to Paisen. “They’ll pick women. Keep your eyes on your food, don’t call any attention to yourself.”
Paisen looked away from the serving line, studying her food. “Why don’t the staff or the drones stop them?” she asked.
“They don’t give a shit what the Warriors do. This is a penal colony, not a day care center. Heads up, coming this way.” He stopped talking, staring at his coffee mug.
Paisen heard footsteps pass behind her, and then the woman stopped at the next table over, and tapped a young girl on the shoulder. “On your feet, recruit.”
The girl stood unsteadily, eyes wide. “Please, no ….”
The Warrior just pushed her toward the serving line. “Shut it. Go get your bags.” She turned and caught sight of Paisen’s long, black hair. Grip closed his eyes, praying silently, but the Warrior woman was already walking toward them. Paisen heard her approach and took a deep, calming breath. She felt a finger jab into her arm.
“Stand up, mule.”
But Grip rose to his feet instead. “Ma’am, my friend here’s only got another week ‘til she’s out on parole,” he lied. “Would you mind picking someone else to help you out?”
The woman laughed, the red skull tattoo on her cheek contorting as her lips curled up. Then she stepped over and shoved Grip hard in the chest. His legs caught on the bench attached to the table, and he toppled over onto the floor with a cry of pain.
“That was chivalrous, but stupid,” she told him. She turned back to Paisen, who was standing slowly, empty hands spread out to her sides. She pointed a finger at Paisen: “Now, you’re going to hump this resupply run out to the city with us, and if you do as you’re told, the boys will probably let you come back here in a couple weeks’ time, when they’re tired of you.”
Paisen shook her head silently.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but that’s how it works around here.” The Warrior gestured around the cafeteria, a cruel smile on her lips. “In the absence of any civil authorities, martial law is in effect.”
“You should just take one of the hoversleds,” Paisen said.
“What did you say?” the woman asked, frowning.
“I said I’m not going anywhere,” she pointed to the young girl, “and neither is she. Steal a hoversled and use that to haul your food. I won’t stop you.”
The woman dropped her hand onto the hilt of her knife. “You won’t stop me?” She traded a look with the two axe-men, who were still supervising the loading of the duffel bags over by the serving line. “You guys hear this? You know what? Fuck you. You had a chance to survive this – a slim one, granted, but it was a chance. But not anymore.” Her knife flashed out of its sheath, arcing toward Paisen’s gut with vicious speed.
Paisen moved in a blur. The cafeteria echoed with the sound of an audible crack, and a shriek of pain from the Warrior. The tattooed woman stepped back, cradling her arm to her chest. Her forearm was bent at an awkward angle, and Paisen’s fork was embedded in the woman’s chest.
Grip’s jaw dropped. “Holy fuck!”
Paisen held the woman’s knife in her right hand: she flipped it and caught the blade, holding it in a throwing grip and pointing a finger at the two men near the serving line.
“You two just stay there,” she told them.
The Warrior pulled Paisen’s fork out of her chest with a grunt. “Bitch!” she swore.
“I just want to serve my time and get out of here,” Paisen told her. “You and the rest of the Warriors can do whatever you want, just leave me out of it.”
The Warrior woman looked around the crowded cafeteria, at the rows of inmates watching her. “It’s too late for that now.”
“No,” Paisen told her. “This is over. Take your food, and we’ll all just forget this ever happened.”
Still holding her broken arm, the woman made her way over to the other two Warriors, who were fingering their axes nervously. But the Warriors could sense the mood in the room, and they shouldered their duffel bags hurriedly and headed for the door. The woman with the tattoo cast a final hateful look at Paisen, then disappeared out into the yard. The door closed behind them.
Paisen tucked the woman’s knife into her belt, then pulled Grip to his feet.
“Thank you,” the young girl told her.
“You can thank me by hauling more scrap,” Paisen said. She walked back over to the serving line, picked up a new fork, and then sat back down and continued her meal. Gradually, the sounds of normal conversation returned to the cafeteria. Grip watched her eat, studying her in silence.
“Were you a soldier, too?” he asked, finally.
Paisen ignored h
im.
“Can you teach me to fight like that?” he persisted.
She sighed. “No.”
“The rest of the Warriors are gonna go ape-shit when they hear about this,” Grip assured her. He glanced over his shoulder at the door to the cafeteria. “Why didn’t you kill her?”
“So my record stays clean while I’m in here,” Paisen replied. “I was just defending myself. I could still get out of here in a year.”
Grip shook his head. “You’ll be lucky to live another month,” he told her.
15
The bank’s doors slid open, and Rath stepped inside, rainwater pouring off his coat. An unseen device in the bank’s ceiling activated, and Rath felt himself engulfed in a warm blast of air. He panicked for a second, and then realized it was merely a full-body drying system, apparently installed to dry customers off during Juntland’s monsoon season. The security guard by the door smiled at his surprised expression.
“Don’t worry,” he told Rath. “It freaks everyone out.”
Rath grinned back, pushing his curly black hair out of his eyes. He walked across the lobby, hoping that the security guard wouldn’t see the noticeable bulge of Beauceron’s tracker bracelet under his pant leg.
If he sees it, I’m toast. Damn Beauceron and his rules.
At the bank’s reception desk, an avatar appeared in front of him.
“Hello, Mr. Mehta. Welcome back.” The holographic woman smiled at him.
“Thanks,” Rath said. “I’d like to access my safe-deposit box, please. Number eight-two-one-zero.”
“Of course,” the avatar replied. “We just need a second to verify your identity. Please place your finger on the scanner.”
Rath did so, silently sending a signal to his finger implants to slowly shift patterns as he held it against the small screen. He waited while the scanner tried to process his print, and then the screen turned red.
“I’m sorry – the scanner is having trouble.”
“My finger’s probably swollen from all the rain,” Rath suggested.
And I couldn’t get a copy of Mehta’s fingerprints ahead of time.
