by Steve Rzasa
“Sorry, boss. I couldn’t wake you up normally,” Baby said. “You didn’t respond to the alarm.”
“Isn’t the whole tampering with REM sleep against your protocols?”
“It is. But you set an exception to them for when you take more than three minutes responding your alarm.”
“Then this had damned well better be an emergency.” Even as he said it he realized his comm signal had started pulsing.
“This is the third time Detector Hildreth has tried to call you.”
“Put her on!” Tower coughed and cleared his throat. “What’s up, Hildy?
“Morning, Tower. Sorry to wake you. I know it’s early but I’m responding to a 117. Victor flagged a building augment reporting a possible break-in at Twenty Nine Sixty Sixty Clarion Street, Apartment Four Eighty Seven G.”
“And you’re calling me about this because…” Tower’s head was still foggy; he was trying to place Clarion Street.
“That’s Mara Tanabera’s apartment. I had it flagged. That’s why Victor picked it up.”
“Come on, I don’t believe it!” Tower was pulling his pants on. “We cleared her. It must be a coincidence!”
“I don’t know. Maybe she knew something she wasn’t telling us and someone is trying to cover their tracks.”
“Who, the assassin who is probably not breaking into her apartment right now because of his very good alibi that involves being dead at the morgue?”
“Look, Tower, you can go back to bed if you want.” Hildy sounded angry. “I just thought you might want to know.”
“Settle down, I’m on my way,” he snapped right back at her. “I’m just trying to find my shoes.”
The building brain for 2966 Clarion Street cleared Tower past all the locked doors and security points up to Apartment 487G. There were three uniforms already on the scene; one of them shook his head at Tower as he got off the elevator.
Too late.
A pair of paramedics were returning their equipment to the large red gravbox in which they transported it. Hildy was standing over Mara Tanabera’s dead body, looking even more pissed than she’d sounded earlier. By the looks of it, Tanabera had been beaten to death. Based on the way in which the furniture had barely been disturbed, she hadn’t put up much of a fight. Taken by surprise, perhaps? Hildy looked up, saw Tower, and her eyes were full of angry self-reproach.
“No signs of forced entry. But the building reports no visitors and the cams on the entrance and lifts prove that she came home alone earlier this morning. No signs of exit either.”
“Weapon?”
“If so, he took it with him. Looks like bare hands.”
Bare hands. That was ugly. Violent. It indicated rage. Lethal, murderous rage. And yet, the ghostly manner in which the killer had come and gone seemed to suggest just the opposite. Tower looked out the window. It was closed. It was also four hundred floors off the ground and the nearest parking platform was thirty seven floors down. “The killer certainly didn’t come in this way.”
“I don’t get it,” Hildy said. “This can’t be random. I mean, it must be connected with Jagaelleon’s death, but what interest could any of the politicals have…”
Her voice trailed off. Then she held up a finger, whirled around, and grabbed the closest paramedic.
“Take a blood sample,” she ordered the man.
“That’s highly irregular, Detector!”
“Just do it,” she repeated.
The paramedic glanced from Hildy to Tower, then shrugged and complied. After withdrawing a small amount of blood from her arm, he looked at Hildy. “What now?”
“See if she’s pregnant.”
It took but a moment for the man to slip the vial into a cylindrical scanner that Tower gathered was a more sophisticated version of the one Hildy carried. Some red numbers appeared on the side, prompting a nod from the paramedic. Hildy exhaled loudly. Tower whistled and shook his head, impressed with her quick reasoning. He would almost certainly have come up with that eventually, but she had figured it out almost at once. Score one for women’s intuition.
“And we have motive. Nice work, detective.”
“The Valatestans don’t care about the next generation of royals, especially a bastard. And I very much doubt the Unity has any interest in a potential child either.”
“It seems we should be looking a little more closely at the new Morchardese regime,” Tower concurred. “Do we have cause of death?”
“The medics said scans indicate her neck was broken. Here, Baby.”
A translucent model of Tanabera’s body with her skeletal structure in yellow was superimposed on Tower’s right eye. Sure enough, there was a red highlight showing a clean break between the C3 and C4 cervical vertebrae. It was apparent the spinal cord had been entirely transected. The places on which the various blows landed were marked in purple, and upon his subvocalized command, the model began slowly rotating.
So much for rage, he thought. That was either the luckiest punch in the history of unarmed combat or someone was trying to make a clinical kill look like an angry boyfriend gone critical.
“Sync in,” he urged Hildy. “You seeing this?”
“One blow to the back of the neck, versus seventeen to the face and torso.” She frowned. “The neck shot must have been intentional. There aren’t any signs she hit her head on anything with enough force to sever her spinal cord when she went down. No blood on the furniture, no bruise on the back of the head.”
“Right. That’s why I think we’re dealing with a pro here,” Tower said. “A pro who wanted to make it look domestic. And if you didn’t have her apartment flagged, that’s exactly what it would have looked like a few days from now when someone finally noticed she was missing.”
Hildy groaned. “Are xeno cases always this complicated?”
“I don’t know. If it weren’t for the indications of Valatestan involvement, which are looking more and more like the killer’s smokescreen, we’d have been locked in on the new government from the start. And don’t forget, Arpad Jagaelleon’s behavior and the location of his death was more consistent with it being a private crime. Now that we’ve narrowed down the list of probable suspects, we have a much a better idea of where to look for the actual evidence. Not that we’re going to find anything useful here if the guy was a pro for hire.”
“I’ll start going over the building data. He might have slipped up somewhere.”
“Go over the assassination attempt too. There is something hinky there. I wasn’t sure at first, but I watched the visual streams about twenty times when I was coming back from Rhys city and now I’m certain. One of the shots picked up on the audio wasn’t fired by the Morchardese guardsmen.”
Hildy’s face showed her surprise. “You think there was a third shooter?”
“We have a ghost here, so maybe we had a ghost there too.” Tower shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’m picking up a pattern here. Someone is trying to make things look a little different than they are.”
“But why?”
“I have no idea.” Tower grinned. “I do know where to start looking. There are three things the killer can’t hide. The bodies and the Mosin-Nyarla. At some point in time, someone’s path had to cross the disruptor. We find that point, and we find the path he’s trying to hide from us.”
She nodded. “I’ll let you know when the tox screen on Mr. Milazzo is in. Where are you going to start looking?”
“The one place every imported weapon has to pass through.” He pointed upward toward space. “Customs.”
CHAPTER TEN
The patient, Corporal Graven Tower, of age 24, has been admitted to this facility by his commanding officer on the advice of medical personnel two days ago. He has recently survived an off-planetary military engagement with alien forces that involved considerable fatalities on both sides. There are no previous records of mentally unstable members of his family, or suicides, however, he has suffered considerable psychological trauma.
>
—from Case Number 4952-9459-93 by Dr. Elanis McNamara
It only took about three kilosecs to reach the nearest public orbital shuttle. Tower stopped along the way at a Mak Dak flythru and picked up an early breakfast and an insulated tube of coffee that was not anywhere nearly so good or so powerful as the Valatestan spress. He found himself regretting that he had so scornfully rejected the ambassador’s delicate hint; he knew he could get away with accepting the occasional delivery of ground spress.
The problem, of course, would be when a debit card attached to an anonymous account showed up hidden in the rich, aromatic black gold. That would be a little difficult to explain to the major. Tower had seen it happen again and again. Once you accepted one little gift, even without any strings attached, it wasn’t long before a clever xeno figured out a way to start making you dance to his tune. He figured half the MPs in the unit were mildly on the take one way or another, and he was pretty certain that Bradford, the other warrant officer with whom he shared an office, was in over his head.
He parked the var in the short-term lot and flashed his identification at the ticketbot. That permitted him to evade the long line of civilians, most of whom were just embarking in the first stage of an interplanetary voyage. He passed the nervous faces of families trying to keep their children in line, the excited faces of young men and women leaving on their first exoplanetary holiday, and the bored faces of transplanetary businessmen insufficiently successful to afford a first-class shuttle. The guard at the security exit saluted him; Tower returned it and noted that the man was armed with nothing more than a stinger and a stunner. In terms of weapons, space began at the shuttle.
The shuttle itself was a giant gumdrop of light grey ceramic-coated metal that rose one hundred meters from the stubby grav blisters at its base to the rounded orange nose cone at the top. A giant mouth at the bottom gaped open as giant robospiders scanned, stamped, and stacked container after container being fed along a waist-high conveyor beam. A young man with a shaven head in the blue uniform of the Sub-Orbital Space Navy approached him, tablet in hand.
“We received your augment’s request, Chief Tower. Will you be travelling alone both ways?”
“Ensign Michael Christchurch,” Baby informed him.
“I expect so, Christchurch. Do you need to get me situated or can I stretch my legs a bit.”
The young man blinked involuntarily at the sound of his name. “Tell you what, Chief. If you’ll just stay within earshot, I’ll let you know when everyone is stowed and you can board then.”
“You’re a credit to the Navy, Christchurch. Not that that’s saying much, you understand, but faint praise is better than none.”
The young man grinned. The interservice rivalry in His Grace’s military forces was competitive, but it wasn’t bitter. There were simply too many enemies out there on the other side of orbit. “Honor to have you aboard, sir.”
“Carry on, Christchurch. I won’t wander far.”
The ensign was true to his word. Once the cargo was loaded, the passengers were brought out, then the young man returned to escort Tower to his seat in the first-class section near the bottom of the shuttle. The passengers were arrayed in layers around a gravcore that ran through the center of the vehicle; regardless of how the shuttle might turn and rotate, their gravitational orientation would remain the same.
It took less time to reach the orbital station than it had to load the shuttle; the ride took barely twelve hectasecs before they were docking. He first watched the holographic views of Rhysalan from orbit, then the rapidly approaching form of Beta Station. There were five orbital stations in all. Beta was the largest, being thirty kilometers in diameter. Twenty docks were set aside for interstellar commerce and travel. Six were reserved for military use. The other four were for in-system traffic. The outer ring was for cargo, interstellar passengers, and maintenance, while the inner hub was reserved for security and the ducal Navy. In between were residences, restaurants, and entertainment venues of varying degrees of quality and morality.
The unloading process looked to take nearly as long as the loading, but Tower again bypassed it thanks to Ensign Christchurch. The ensign escorted him out to the terminal and pointed out the direction in which he could find the station autotaxis. Tower wished he could have tipped the young man; he provided better service than most hotel staff he had encountered over the years.
The autotaxi was a four-man pod that zoomed up and chirped cheerfully at him.
“Welcome to Station Beta Spoke Three, space travelers! You’ll find there are some excellent refreshment alternatives for a wide variety of tastes and budgets to be found on Station Beta, including genuine seafood from the Duke’s own private sea-reserve! So, what are your names, wayfarers?”
“Baby, tell it where we want to go. And for the love all that’s holy, shut it up already, please!”
Tower clambered into the little vehicle, which took off at a considerably greater acceleration than he was expecting. He actually felt more G-forces than he had on the shuttle.
Spoke Three opened up into a neighborhood called Kwili-Jargon. Tower recognized it from his first assignment with MCID when he’d spent nine months assisting customs officers attempting to track down questionable shipments. A number of Independent Associated and Unity planets had warehouses in the area, as it was among the least expensive real estate on the orbital station. That meant the rents were only mildly ruinous. Vars and autocabs were branching off into three lanes: left, right, and center for the boulevard that led deeper into the core.
The cab opted for the right lane, and once they were off the main thoroughfare, Baby directed it into a drop-off zone. Tower stepped out and was immediately assaulted by the scents and smells of station life. Spicy food, sweat, body odor, alien perfumes, engine grease, the tang of ozone from aging anti-grav units. With water at a premium, nothing got washed around here unless it really needed it. He grinned. Nothing like burrowing down into the belly of the beast!
“Tower, this isn’t the safest district,” Baby reminded him. “On a per capita basis, violent crime is 64 percent higher than in Trans Paradis.”
“You worry too much.”
“Someone has to, if you won’t be bothered.”
The place he was seeking was not far. It was sandwiched between a casino with garish neon lights and dancing women hawking drinks to the men and not-men passing by despite the early hour, and some kind of boarding house. The windows were opaqued and the door bore no address or identification of any kind. The woman standing in the doorway on the left smiled at Tower. He smiled back and shook his head.
“This establishment has no information on file with the corporate registry, Tower. I suspect it may be an illegal establishment.”
“I suspect you are entirely correct, Baby. And that’s exactly what we’re looking for.”
He tried the door. It was locked.
“Baby, can you open it?”
“Either it’s not electronic or it’s not connected to the network. I can’t touch it.”
Tower shrugged. “All right. Tell Station security that there’s no need to respond; investigation in process.”
“Respond to what? Tower, don’t—
It was too late. He’d already drawn his Sphinx and thumbed it to max. He pressed the trigger. There was a purple flare accompanied by a loud crackling noise. He reached out and gave the door a push; it swung open freely thanks to the twelve-centimeter hole he’d blown through the locking bar.
The inside was as plain as the false brick exterior—a few chairs and a couch in a reception area with grubby decking. The counter was silver and had accumulated several dents, scratches and what appeared to be the occasional laser burns. One of the three bright blue lights overhead flickered. In the back, there was an opening that led to a room behind. Yellow light shone down a hallway.
“What’s going on out there?” The deep, inhuman voice rumbled like a thunderstorm echoing off city skytowers. Heavy foo
tsteps thumped on the deck. “How did you get in here? I locked the door.”
“That’s why you’ll need a new lock,” Tower said, as he holstered his weapon. “And a new door.”
The dark green-scaled alien who appeared through the door was half a meter shorter than Tower and twice as wide. He wore a blue mechanic’s suit, but wore neither boots nor shoes, thereby exposing long, sharp-clawed toes. The creature hooted a greeting and wrapped all six of his arms around Tower’s shoulders, chest, and waist. The nictating membrane that protected his large black eyes glittered under the lights. “Graven Tower! What in the name of the First Egg brings you up here? I thought you’d gone to ground for good!”
“I have, more or less. What’s shaking, Delbert?”
“Work, work, always there is more work. What is it that you have against knocking?” Delbert hissed, taking in the damage to the front door.
“I understand you’re not the sort of lizard who wants a reputation for cooperating with the police. Particularly not XAR. I’m just looking out for you, old friend.”
The Basattrian rubbed four hands over the red spines that covered his head and neck as he looked past Tower at the door. He winced at the size of the hole. “I would appreciate a little less concern next time. You are here in your official capacity?”
“Unofficially, yes.”
The alien nodded. “I am not surprised. What do you want to know?”
Run it, Baby. She projected files and lists in hologram form on the rear wall from Tower’s badge. The thick Basattrian cocked his heavy head to one side and the translucent film flipped back and forth over his narrowed eyes. It was a sign of concentration; at least the alien seemed to be taking this seriously. Serial numbers scrolled down the wall.
“Disruptor shipment. Mosin-Nyarlas out of Tangar II. They were seized here last week. You know anything about that?”
“Not much. I heard there was some contra coming through from there. Didn’t know they were disruptors, though. I keep my claws out of the arms trade. But now that you mention it, there was talk of some new players screwing up. It wasn’t the usual guys.”
