Masterminds

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Flattery and money got you here, Uzvuyiten,” Salehi said. “But you can stop now.”

  “My dear Rafael—”

  “And you can stop that too,” Salehi said. “I would probably have been quite amused by this situation under normal circumstances. But these aren’t normal circumstances. Zhu’s dead, and the Moon’s a dangerous place for all of us—especially you. You’re a Peyti lawyer. Have you thought that through?”

  “Yes, I have,” Uzvuyiten said. “I’m an old Peyti lawyer, with a fantastic reputation all over the Alliance. I’m well liked. If something happens to me here, well, then, it’ll show just how bad things have gotten on the Moon, won’t it?”

  Salehi stared at him. “You think they’ll attack you.”

  “You think they won’t?”

  “I wanted you to stay on this ship for that reason,” Salehi said, “and that was before Zhu died. Don’t do this, Uzvuyiten. You’re taking too many risks.”

  “And I would say that you’re not taking enough,” Uzvuyiten said. “But I think you are taking risks. The wrong kind.”

  “What does that mean?” Salehi asked.

  Uzvuyiten shrugged and then made his way down the hall.

  “What are you saying?” Salehi asked.

  “S3 On The Moon?” Uzvuyiten said. “Thinking you can ride the backs of a million dead to change clone law? You’re too arrogant, Rafael.”

  “I am?” Salehi said. “What about you?”

  “We’re talking about my people here, Rafael,” Uzvuyiten said. “That’s not arrogance. That’s survival.”

  “The Peyti aren’t threatened,” Salehi said.

  “Maybe not at home,” Uzvuyiten said. “But our place in the Alliance is. And I’m here to protect it. Or die trying.”

  He continued down the corridor.

  Salehi watched him go, and then sighed.

  Uzvuyiten seemed to think he could be a martyr to the cause, not realizing they already had one.

  Salehi returned to his suite.

  He had always known this was going to be an interesting trip. He just hadn’t realized how interesting.

  Or how dangerous.

  For all of them.

  TWELVE

  THE SHIP ARRIVED sooner than Flint had expected.

  He had just entered the port when he got the first contact from Murray Atherton of Space Traffic Control.

  Your boy just arrived.

  No explosions, then. Flint let out an audible sigh of relief, which made the new kid standing behind the west security entrance look at him with suspicion. To be fair, the new kid behind the west security entrance to the port looked at everyone with suspicion.

  The port was no longer the place it had been when Flint worked there just seven years before. It looked older, battered, filthy in a way it had never looked before. All effort had been turned to security, and with that effort, most of the funds, as well.

  So cleaning bots had been reprogrammed to sniff out all kinds of toxins and explosives; the human security staff had been beefed up to the point of ridiculousness; and, most disturbing to Flint, the entrances had been set up to separate people by species. Humans had their own entrance, as did the Disty and the Peyti. Other species often were lumped together by size, with little consideration for species tolerance or the way that the species might travel.

  Lately, Flint had tried to come to the port as infrequently as possible.

  He slipped through the first round of security, which checked him for weaponry and explosives. Ahead, he would have to go through a decontamination unit to make certain he wasn’t bringing any biological hazard into the port, never mind that Armstrong’s environmental systems swept for biological hazards continually, and it would be nearly impossible for someone to bring a known biological hazard—the kind that would cause mass deaths—into the port.

  But he wasn’t one of the people making the decisions for the port, and he never had been.

  The new kid—whom Flint spotted by his attitude and his creased and shiny uniform—continued to stare at Flint as if he had sprouted horns or something. And then Flint flushed. The kid was looking at Flint because Flint was as blond and pale as the Frémont clones. White skin, blue eyes, and blond hair were recessive traits—a sign of inbreeding, his ex-wife Rhonda had said to him in one of their epic fights—and uncommon in almost all human communities.

  Flint tipped an imaginary hat to the kid and kept going, contacting Murray while crossing the expanse between the first check-in point and the second.

  Is he out of the ship?

  Not yet, Murray sent. The suits are going in first. There’s no identification on his ship, you know. What you sent me, I can’t confirm it by the ship itself.

  That didn’t surprise Flint. He was about to say so when he had to step into the decontamination unit. It was an old unit, clearly moved from the arrival terminals.

  Security might have improved here, but not enough to make the port more secure.

  The decontamination unit was large enough to hold a tall, fat man or a Sequev. Flint stood in the center as lights washed over him, checking him for a thousand different things.

  He made himself take a deep breath. He’d been running since he left the Security Office. Talia remained there, under protest. She wanted to know what was happening. But he didn’t want to bring her into what could be an extremely dangerous situation.

  She didn’t entirely understand, although she said she did. She made him promise that he would tell her if the real Zagrando was dead.

  Flint would have anyway, so the promise was easy.

  The lights intensified. A sign in a dozen languages appeared across his right eye, telling him to stretch out his arms and his legs. So, even though the decontamination unit was designed to seem non-invasive, whoever decided that it needed to be moved to this part of the port had added instructions to make the unit seem invasive.

  If this were a different day, he would mention that to Murray. But Flint was pushing his connection to Murray. Murray had done Flint a lot of favors since Flint left Space Traffic. Most of them had occurred when Flint was a detective, but still. Murray let Flint bend more rules than Flint wanted to contemplate.

  Murray had complained about this one, however.

  You realize that you could be letting in yet another terrorist, Murray had sent when Flint contacted him.

  I do, Flint had replied. Lock this guy down until I get there. And be ready. He said someone was after him.

  We’ll monitor anyone on his tail, Murray sent.

  Clearly, Murray was following instructions to lock the man down. Flint had warned him that the ship might be contaminated and would need to go to quarantine. And when the ship was still about ten minutes out, Murray had contacted Flint to complain that the ship had no registration and no computerized identification. When Space Traffic had tried to contact the pilot, an automated response answered, broadcasting that the pilot was in distress.

  Murray hadn’t liked that.

  Flint didn’t either. If the port had been one of those places that wasn’t cautious, a “sick” pilot could cause a lot of port employees their health or their lives.

  Flint stepped outside of the decontamination unit into a large open area with high ceilings. Once upon a time, this had been the entry, without all the security. Now it was the place where the people who had gone through the different entrances mingled as they headed toward the terminals.

  …’s fine. Word is that the passenger isn’t. You there, Miles? Murray had clearly been trying to communicate with Flint while Flint was in decon.

  I’m going through your lovely damn security, Flint sent.

  Hustle your ass to Terminal Five. I’m getting word that your boy is injured, maybe dying.

  What? Flint sent. He hadn’t expected that. I thought you said he was fine.

  I said the ship was fine. Nothing on it except one passenger. Lots of laser weapon scarring. And he’s been shot up real bad. They’re taking him to
the Medical Unit. I’m told you gotta hurry if you want to see him alive.

  Flint cursed, then took off at a run. It was hard to maintain any kind of speed. The crowd was thick, and getting thicker. Some people were hurrying, but most were meandering.

  Human security officers stood every few meters or so, watching him run as if he were fleeing arrest. Within seconds, he had bots keeping pace with him, obviously monitoring him.

  I caught the attention of Port Security, Flint sent. Call them off.

  Some kind of wheeze made it through the links. Clearly, Murray had set the communication to audio for that single sound. Because then he sent, Like Space Traffic has control of those amateurs.

  Well, it’ll do us no good if one of those amateurs kills me, Flint sent.

  Nothing I can do, Murray sent. Try not to look suspicious.

  While running, Flint sent. He wished he still had his police badge. He should have thought this through and asked DeRicci to give him some kind of identification.

  But he hadn’t been thinking, just reacting. He hurried, rounding corner after corner, weaving in and out of the throng as he ran to the arrivals area.

  There, his passage got easier. Almost everyone was human. Flint had never seen anything like it. Usually there were so many different species the place looked like one of those unity vids the kids watched their first week in school. But this wasn’t unity. This was like traveling to some of the ancient cities of Earth, where aliens weren’t welcome.

  The shock of the change almost made Flint slow down.

  Has he made it to the Medical Unit? Flint sent.

  Just now. They’re expecting you. Flash your palm as you go through the terminal entry. I greased the way for you there, at least.

  A small miracle. Flint wondered how Murray pulled that off, then decided not to ask.

  The doors to the Arrivals Terminal ran as far as the eye could see. People generally couldn’t go into the Arrivals Terminal; only staff could. Flint veered to the small kiosk on his left, where some of the Traffic staff worked. He held up his palm, and the door opened as if he were still employed by Space Traffic.

  He sent a thank-you to Murray, but didn’t say any more.

  Everything was feeling like an effort. Somehow he had gotten out of shape in the last few months. Or maybe longer. Maybe since Talia had come into his life.

  The back corridor threaded past the windy hallways that regular passengers had to take to leave the Arrivals area. Above Flint, cameras tracked his every movement. He had lost the bots, but he knew smaller cameras the size of an eyelash were tracking him as he ran.

  Right now, if this went south, the only person who would get into trouble was Murray. Flint hoped it wouldn’t happen that way—Murray was trusting him, and Flint was trusting a dim memory of a man who had saved Talia’s life—and a contact made through a link that hadn’t been used in more than three years.

  Flint finally reached the double doors of the security entrance to the Human Medical Unit. He slammed both hands on the doors, and they opened for him.

  He stepped into a cacophony of sound. A woman wailing as she leaned against the wall, a baby looking up at her from a nearby bassinet. A man clutching his left arm and moaning in pain. Two women shouting at someone in blue medical gear.

  Flint stopped at the main desk, and held up his hands for the virtual identification as he said to the young man sifting through some holoscreens, “Miles Flint. I’m here to see the patient they just wheeled in from Terminal Five.”

  The young man looked up, glanced at Flint’s identification (which calmed Flint some), and said, “I was waiting for you, Mr. Flint. Come with me.”

  Flint hadn’t expected that. He had expected instructions.

  The young man led him to a room just off the main area. “You have to suit up.”

  “Why?” Flint asked. “I thought he was injured, not contagious.”

  “He’s got laser burns all along the lower part of his body. It’s amazing he’s alive. And he’s barely conscious, but he’s conscious enough—according to our equipment—to legally refuse treatment until you arrive.”

  The young man handed Flint a thin disposable suit—not a standard environmental suit, but a medical suit, one that allowed a full range of movement but didn’t allow any contaminates through the thin fabric, in either direction.

  “You can slip it on over your clothes, but hurry,” the young man said. “The longer you delay, the less chance this guy has of surviving.”

  Flint’s mouth went dry. The suit was one piece, designed big. He pulled it on, and then it attached itself like a second skin. The attachment was vaguely painful, and pulled at his face and hair. Fresh oxygen circulated into his nostrils and made him feel more awake than he had in weeks.

  “Where is he?” Flint asked, expecting his voice to sound different. But of course it didn’t.

  “Through those doors,” the young man said. He stepped out of the way.

  Flint had to go through a double airlock to get to an antechamber that he had never seen before. The lights were down except underneath the bed, making the patient look like he was glowing. Two medical professionals hovered around him.

  “I’m Miles Flint,” Flint said to them. “I understand this man was waiting for me.”

  “Flint?” The voice sounded familiar, but Flint didn’t know if his memory was playing tricks on him.

  He activated one of his memory chips. He’d thought to download some of the information he had gathered at Valhalla Basin as he drove to the port, and now he compared that single word to Zagrando’s voice from years ago.

  “Yes.” Flint walked to the bedside. The man on it didn’t look injured—at least from the chest up. But from the chest down, he was a mass of bloated red and black skin.

  Flint suspected that if he weren’t wearing the suit, the stench in the room would be almost unbearable.

  “Miles Flint,” the man said again, as if he couldn’t believe it. “I need to talk to you.”

  The voice print matched. Flint never had any of Zagrando’s DNA. He supposed he could get Murray to run it against the DNA on file for the dead man, but Flint wasn’t sure if he wanted the authorities to know that Zagrando was here.

  Of course, it didn’t matter if they already knew who he was.

  “Who is this man?” Flint asked one of the medical personnel.

  “His identification says he’s Isamu Vidal,” she said. “He says you know him.”

  Flint, you have to get them out of here. I have to talk to you alone. That message came through the same old link that had started this conversation.

  Can’t we do this on the links? Flint asked.

  Don’t want a record, came the reply.

  There might be recordings in here.

  I’ll mumble. You can lean over.

  Talia would tell Flint not to do that, that this was the point of the entire mission for this man, to contaminate Flint somehow. Only Flint had no idea how or what it would gain. Besides, Flint’s system just told him that the voice matched.

  “I need to speak to him alone,” Flint told the woman medical tech.

  “It’s not advised,” she said. “He’s in bad shape, and we—”

  “He won’t talk otherwise,” Flint said, “and he came here specifically to see me. The sooner you get out of here, the faster you can get him into surgery or whatever you’re going to do to save his life.”

  The woman looked at the other tech, who shrugged.

  “You have two minutes,” the woman said, then led the other tech out of the room.

  “Thank you.” Zagrando didn’t speak as softly as he said he would.

  Flint came to his side. The man’s dark skin was gray, and his eyes were sunken.

  “Why do they list you as dead?” Flint asked.

  “It’s complicated.” Zagrando’s voice shook. His eyelids drooped for a moment, and then he seemed to catch himself. “I’m not sure how long I can stay awake. I’ll tell you the full
story when we have more time, but here’s what you need to know.”

  Flint leaned in.

  Zagrando took a deep breath. His hands gripped the side of the bed. His eyelids drooped again.

  “Iniko,” Flint said. “What do I need to know?”

  “Oh.” Zagrando looked at him. “I forgot you were here.”

  Flint’s heart started pounding. The man was near death, and he needed to say something. Flint wasn’t sure he’d get it out.

  “They sent me undercover to find out how easy the clones were to track,” Zagrando said. “Took weeks and weeks. I couldn’t find them. Then when they realized I was on the wrong track, they tried to kill me.”

  Flint was confused. He couldn’t follow exactly what Zagrando said.

  “Who sent you?”

  Zagrando blinked at Flint. “I came here of my own accord.”

  This wasn’t going to work. The man was too ill. But Flint decided to try one last time.

  “I need you to pay attention, Iniko.” Flint made his voice just a bit harsh. “You said someone sent you to find the clones. The Anniversary Day clones?”

  “Yes.” Zagrando blinked, his eyes opening wide. He seemed to be alert, at least for the moment.

  “Who sent you?” Flint asked.

  “I was undercover for the EAIS. Thought I was working for them. Should’ve known.” His eyes drooped a third time.

  Flint wanted to shake him awake, but refrained.

  “Should have known what?” Flint asked.

  “They used a clone to kill me. You know that? It’s why I’m dead. Should’ve been a clue.”

  The door opened and the woman entered. “I’m sorry, sir, you have to leave now.”

  Flint’s stomach clenched. He didn’t look at her. “A clue to what?”

  “Wasn’t working for Intelligence. Working for them.” Zagrando’s gaze flicked to the woman, but Flint wasn’t sure Zagrando saw her.

  Flint wasn’t sure Zagrando saw anything.

  “Sir.” The woman took Flint’s arm. “You have to leave. If you don’t leave, we’ll escort you out.”