by Piers Platt
“That’s unfortunate. And Lizelle acquired the datascroll with the program from Yellen. The senator will have destroyed it already.”
“More than likely,” the burned man agreed. “The girlfriend might know, but she’s not at her office.”
“You’re there now?” the director asked.
“Yes. Her coworkers claim they haven’t seen her for several hours.”
“Did the programmer warn her somehow?”
“No. I made sure of that.” The man peered through the window of his car. “The police arrived a few minutes ago – they’re searching for her, too.”
“Then back off – we’ll soon have her location from our informant network.”
“As you say.”
“You have the programmer’s files and data drives?” the director inquired.
“Yes.”
“Bring them in, in case any of the data is recoverable … or he was lying.”
“He wasn’t lying,” the man assured her. “He learned that lesson early.”
“I’m sure,” she said. “Good work, 700.”
* * *
“Where’s Khyron?” Dasi asked again, panic creeping into her voice.
The senator pulled his hand from hers, and looked at the floor of the shuttle. “I’m sorry, Dasi. I didn’t know what they were planning, and when I found out, it was already too late.”
Dasi gripped the arm rests of her shuttle seat. “What do you mean, ‘too late’?”
“It was all I could do to convince them not to send someone after you, too,” he continued.
“Charl,” Dasi pleaded. “Tell me. Please.”
“They sent someone for Khyron this morning, after you came in to work,” Lizelle said, his voice quiet. “They killed him.”
Dasi sobbed, and covered her face in her hands. She was still crying when the shuttle docked at Anchorpoint’s transfer station. Lizelle stood up, and guided her gently to her feet. She shook him off, angrily. One of Lizelle’s bodyguards entered the passenger cabin.
“Just a minute,” Lizelle told him. “Dasi, I’m sorry. Please believe me, there was nothing I could do.”
She took a ragged breath, and faced the Senate Guard, ignoring Lizelle. “Let’s go,” she told him, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
The bodyguard walked her across the transfer station, where Dasi’s tear-streaked face earned some odd looks from other travelers. Finally, they passed through the passenger terminal and into the cargo hub. They came to a deserted loading bay, where a cargo ship was docked, its entrance hatch closed.
“Here?” Dasi asked, uncertain.
The bodyguard nodded. “That’s what I was told. Just put your hand on the scanner.”
Dasi placed her hand on the scanner, and the boarding hatch slid open. The boarding tube was lit with pulsing yellow arrows, split down the middle like a pair of fish-hooks, back to back. Dasi squared her shoulders and stepped into the cargo ship, following the arrows.
22
Rath glanced down the corridor a final time, confirmed that the in-processing hall was empty, and then shut the bathroom door, locking it. He handed Paisen a set of civilian clothes from his backpack, then pulled out his own set. As she changed pants, he showed her a photo on his phone of the female employee he had kidnapped. She frowned, studying the picture, and then Rath saw her skin ripple, the plates shifting as she reconfigured them to match. He found it fascinating watching her face transform – he rarely got to see himself do it, let alone someone else.
She looked up at him, twisting her face from side to side so he could inspect it. “Good?” she asked.
Rath recalled the woman’s face from memory, studying the nuances of it in his mind’s eye, then comparing it to Paisen’s copy.
“A little softer on the chin – there, you got it.” He handed her a security badge. “You’re Wei Lin Xen, on staff for nearly three years. You supervise female inmates during in-processing and out-processing – but no inmates are scheduled to do either today. If anyone asks, we’ve just been catching up on paperwork and mandated online training. You actually called in sick yesterday and today, so our boss is going to be surprised to see you. I’m Jon Barken, everyone calls me Jay. I’m your counterpart on the male side of the house – same job. We’re friendly, but nothing romantic.”
“Wei Lin Xen. Do I go by Wei or Wei Lin?”
“Just Wei,” Rath said.
“Wei,” Paisen repeated. Rath looked away, embarrassed, as she slipped out of the civilian shirt she had taken from one of the Warriors. “I need the new shirt,” she told him.
“Right, sorry.” He held it out to her, eyes focused on the floor.
“Thanks, Jay.”
“We can finish the rest of our shift, but I thought we could use your ‘illness’ as an excuse and leave early,” Rath told her. “Apparently the staff knocks off early all the time if there are no inmates to process.”
“Yeah, let’s do that,” she agreed, affixing the badge to her uniform shirt. “Ready when you are.”
Out in the parking lot, Rath led Paisen to a dented pick-up truck. She eyed it with distaste, but climbed in. Rath started up and headed for the gate, waving to the security guard as they passed through. The prison access road was a single dirt track leading back to the main highway – Rath resisted the urge to drive overly fast, and only checked the rear-view mirror twice.
“You couldn’t steal an air car?” Paisen asked, when the prison compound was several miles behind them.
“It’s Jay’s car … I guess he can’t afford one,” Rath said. He checked the mirror again. “I’ve got some cash, but not much,” he admitted. “Where are we headed?”
“Somewhere quiet,” she said. “After this stunt, we’ll need to stay off the grid for a while. Another planet in the Territories. Then we can start searching for Group Headquarters.”
Rath glanced over at her, surprised. “You don’t know where it is?”
“No,” Paisen said. “My source said they move every few years for security. By the time I had my tracking system turned off, they had relocated from the planet she told me they were on.”
Rath frowned. “Well, I think I know someone who could help us with the search. He helped me find you.”
Paisen’s head snapped around. “You told someone else about me? About who we are?”
“I had to,” Rath insisted. “When you didn’t show on Lakeworld, I had no idea how to find you. So I got some help from a detective.”
“An Interstellar Police detective?!”
“Ex-detective, but … yes. Listen he’s not—”
Suddenly a black, metallic net slapped onto the hood of the car, punching through the metal with small grappling hooks. The lines of the net crackled with blue electricity, and the car screeched to a halt. Rath tapped frantically on the car’s control panel, but the screen stayed dark. Then two armored air cars roared overhead, swooping in for landings amidst a cloud of dust. One straddled the road directly in front of the pickup truck, and as the dust settled, Rath saw a door gunner leveling a pintle-mounted auto-cannon at him. The second car landed off to the side, and under cover of the heavy weapon, an assault team stepped off the landing skids, jogging toward Rath and Paisen with weapons at the ready.
“Shit,” Rath said. “The prison guards must have alerted someone.”
Paisen shot him a look of pure hatred. “No. That’s a Group collection team. And you led them right to me.”
* * *
Beauceron groaned and rolled over, bumping into something smooth and hard. He opened his eyes and studied it for a moment.
A … toilet?
He sat up, but his head swam immediately, and he lay back down.
Bad idea.
After a second, he opened his eyes again, blinking in the bright light.
That’s my bathroom ceiling.
He closed his eyes again and searched his pockets for his holophone, but it was gone. The watch Katarina had given him at his Detective pro
motion ceremony was still on his wrist, so he raised his left arm into view and squinted at it.
11:20 p.m. I was at the biergarten earlier this evening, did I get drunk again …?
He sat bolt upright.
Rath!
* * *
The hood slid off of Rath’s head, and he was momentarily blinded by the lights above him, despite his implants correcting for the glare. Rath squinted, and saw that he was looking at a bank of high-power bulbs, mounted on an adjustable arm.
Just like in an operating room.
He felt someone removing his shoes, and a slight tugging sensation on his pants, then the feeling of cold air against his skin.
Someone’s cutting off my clothing.
But his head was restrained, and he could only look up at the lights. Next to the lights he saw a viewscreen, and as he watched, it flickered to life. He saw a feed of Paisen, strapped to a surgical table, just as he was. Her clothes were already removed, and two men in surgical garb were leaning over a table of instruments, carefully laying them out.
Suddenly a masked face loomed into view over him. “Hello, 621. Welcome back.”
Rath swallowed nervously.
“Do you remember the video you were shown when you completed your training?” the man continued.
Rath nodded, his head moving only fractionally against the restraints. “Yes.”
“Excellent. For your sins, you get to help us make a new video. For the benefit of the cameras, can you please tell me how you find yourself to be here?”
“The Group betrayed me,” Rath told him.
“I can’t exactly show that to new recruits, can I? That’s okay. Think about it – we’ll have plenty of time to get a good quote out of you later on. For now, you can sit back and enjoy the show. You get to take today off, you see. Today, we’re going to focus on 339. But don’t worry,” he pointed up at the viewscreen. “You get to watch, and then tomorrow, you get to experience it all yourself.”
23
Elisaveta stuck her head around the edge of the door. “Coming up to bed?” she asked.
“Mm,” Rozhkov grunted.
“Who was here earlier?” she asked.
“Oh. Ah, Martin was. He needed help with something.”
She frowned disapprovingly. “Martin was here? And you didn’t tell me?” she scolded.
“You were in the shower.” He looked up, and realized he was still frowning, so he smiled at her. “He’s well, he said to give you his best. Go on up. I’ll be up in a while, I need to think for a bit.”
“Okay,” she said. “Good night, my love.”
“Good night.” He blew her a kiss, and she shut the door quietly.
Rozhkov sighed, and then pulled up the personal media folder on his computer. He accessed a playlist labeled Katarina, and let it run, watching as his daughter took her first steps, started school, and won her first soccer game. The video ended with her wedding, with Katarina and Beauceron slow-dancing alone on the dance floor, her head resting on his shoulder.
Before she got sick.
In the background, he saw himself holding Elisaveta, smiling. He closed the playlist, and hunted around in the folder again.
Where is it?
He tapped on a file marked 40th Anniversary. A video opened; he was standing outside his office, next to the Alberon police commissioner. Smiling detectives were clustered around.
“Lieutenant Colonel Rozhkov has now spent four decades on the force. That’s longer than many of you have been alive. But it’s not as long as I’ve been on the force!” The detectives laughed politely. “But while he might not have as much tenure as I do, he certainly has as much respect, if not more so. This man has led his team – all of you – with integrity, dedication, and skill. I only hope he’ll continue to do so for a long time. The retirement age is only a suggestion, Alexei, not a requirement!” The detectives laughed again, and the commissioner handed Rozhkov a wooden plaque, then shook his hand. The assembled detectives applauded, and came forward to congratulate him, shaking hands and patting him on the shoulder.
Rozhkov frowned.
Where was Martin? He wouldn’t have missed something like that.
He rewound the footage, then fast-forwarded.
Ah, there he is. Standing at the back.
Rozhkov watched as the ceremony ended again. Martin clapped and smiled enthusiastically, but when all of the other detectives formed a line to shake hands with Rozhkov, Beauceron moved forward as if to join them, before catching sight of the police commissioner. Instead of joining the line, he turned and disappeared out of view.
He wanted to make sure the commissioner didn’t associate me with him. Or perhaps he was just ashamed, still, after all of these years.
Rozhkov sat in silence for a minute.
Integrity, dedication, and skill.
He looked down at the phone on his desk, grimacing.
And Martin, my son, can’t even shake my hand in public because of what I did.
Tears rolled down his cheeks. He snatched up the phone, pulling his arm back as if to throw it against the wall, and then paused, sobbing. Rozhkov let his arm drop, slipped the phone into his pocket, and then stood and walked toward his garage.
At Beauceron’s apartment building, Rozhkov parked, noting that Beauceron’s assigned parking spot was unoccupied. He called Beauceron’s phone, but the call went to voicemail after a number of rings. Rozhkov left him a brief message, and then waited. After ten minutes with no reply, Rozhkov called again, frowning, but again, there was no reply. He accessed the Interstellar Police network through his dashboard computer.
“Location trace,” he ordered. “Martin Beauceron.” Rozhkov read out Beauceron’s phone number from memory.
“That phone is less than one hundred meters north-north-east of your location,” the computer replied.
Rozhkov’s frown deepened.
If you’re home, why aren’t you answering? And where’s your car?
He got out of the car and walked over to the building entrance, punching the elevator button for Beauceron’s floor. At Beauceron’s door he rang the bell several times, then pounded on it.
“Martin, it’s Alexei. Are you in there?”
Rozhkov tried calling Beauceron’s phone again, then lost patience. He tapped on the door’s security lock.
“Unauthorized user,” the door responded.
“Emergency override, Interstellar Police protocol fourteen-point-two,” Rozhkov told it.
“Identify,” the door ordered.
“Rozhkov, Alexei – Lieutenant Colonel.”
The door clicked open. “Emergency override has been logged. Please file appropriate reports within twenty-four hours.”
Rozhkov pushed inside impatiently. “Yeah, yeah. Martin? Are you okay?” He saw Beauceron’s phone on a table, and then caught sight of the grenade on the bathroom door. “Jesus!” He knelt behind the couch, taking cover from the door.
“Alexei?” A muffled voice came from behind the door.
“Martin? Are you in the bathroom? Your door is mined, don’t touch it,” Alexei yelled.
Beauceron swore. “I thought he might have been bluffing,” he yelled.
“Who? Who put the grenade there?” Rozhkov asked.
“My … associate,” Beauceron said. “The one who came to see you a week or so ago. He’s … he was never a cop, Alexei.”
“I know,” Rozhkov said, peering over the couch at the device.
“I’m sorry, Alexei – I should never have lied to you,” Beauceron continued.
Rozhkov sighed, shaking his head. “Just be quiet, Martin.” Rozhkov held his phone up, and then used the zoom function to take several close-up pictures of the device. He studied them for a few seconds. “Martin, I’m going to take a closer look at the grenade. Are you somewhere safe?”
“No,” Beauceron said. “Wait a minute: I’ll lie down in the tub.” Rozhkov heard Beauceron moving things inside the bathroom. “Okay, ready. But be
careful.”
Rozhkov stood and walked over to the door, slowing as he got closer. He stopped several feet away, and bent over slightly, examining the device. Then he snorted. “Martin, it’s set to ‘stun,’ ” he said, straightening up.
“Well, I guess it’s somewhat heartening that he didn’t want to kill me,” Beauceron said.
“Stay in the bathtub, I’m going to trigger it,” Rozhkov told him.
He picked up a cushion and squatted back down behind the couch, then lobbed the cushion at the door, closing his eyes and covering his ears. The cushion hit the wall near the door, and a blast of sound and light washed over him, momentarily disorienting Rozhkov. He shook his head and stood up, then walked over to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. A section of tiles lay on the floor, where Beauceron had started trying to dig his way out using the wooden toilet plunger. Beauceron was sitting up in the bathtub, rubbing his forehead.
“You okay?” Rozhkov asked.
“Recovering,” Beauceron grunted. “He shot me with a stun dart a couple hours ago, before locking me in here. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Rozhkov said. “What happened?”
“I got kidnapped by another guildsman,” Beauceron said ruefully, climbing out of the tub. “Actually, no – it was the same one that kidnapped me before. I got kidnapped by the same god damn guildsman. Again. Alexei, you need to go, don’t get involved in this … I was helping him.”
“I know,” Rozhkov said.
Beauceron didn’t hear him. “You would think that after all these years, I would have learned to stop chasing the Guild. It only causes trouble. I had such plans – I was going to bring him in, help deliver our first real lead on the Guild, he knew so much … but he got the jump on me and got away. Alexei, I’ve betrayed us all – I may be going to jail.”
“Martin, I know.”
“You knew?” Beauceron asked. “How?”
“I watched him when he accessed the database at the station, and I had my suspicions. Your visit tonight confirmed it.” The two men walked out of the bathroom, and Rozhkov handed Beauceron his phone. “Sit down, Martin, I need to tell you something.”
