Masterminds

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Popova now tapped all of her fingers against the desk. The drumming sound was arrhythmic, and drove Flint slightly crazy.

  “I’m not sure what to do.” Her gaze met Flint’s. He’d never heard Popova say something like that.

  “Check out the name she gave you,” he said. “If she gave you her real name, her history should stop at some point in the past. If she gave you the name she’s been using recently, then you should find some kind of record, which should give you a sense of what kind of person she is.”

  “And then what?” Popova asked.

  “If her history stops, you know she’s telling the truth. If she has an entire lifetime’s worth of history, then you need to judge it on its merits. If you only have a year or two of recent data, ignore her. If you have decades’ worth, and she’s managed to stay out of trouble, then I think you should invite her here under heavy guard, and see what she has to say.”

  “What if she’s a bomber or something?” Popova asked.

  Flint reached over and took her hand, stopping the tapping. “That’s why I’m suggesting she come here. She doesn’t need to come to this floor. Meet her in the lobby. She has to go through more security to get into this building than she has to go through almost anywhere else in Armstrong. If she’s carrying something or she looks suspicious, then don’t let her up here. Trust the guards downstairs and the systems inside the building. You’ll be fine.”

  Popova squeezed his hand. Her fingers were cold and a little clammy. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There are days when nothing seems easy. This is one of them.”

  He understood, but he felt that if he said that, he was patronizing Popova.

  “Talia still in the kitchen?” he asked.

  “She’s moved to the room you two sometimes use. She asked for a tablet. I gave one to her. Is that all right?”

  Flint was cheered to hear that news and worried at the same time. He had no idea what Talia would be working on.

  “Thanks,” he said, pivoted, and headed the other way down the hall. Behind him, he heard a chair squeak as Popova sat back down.

  The empty office he and Talia had used in the past was just beyond the elevators, around the corner. The door was open. Talia sat in her usual chair—although Flint wasn’t exactly certain about that as a definition of sitting.

  She had her knees over one of the chair’s arms and her back propped against the other arm. She rested her head against the top of the chair. The tablet was propped against her thighs.

  When she saw him, she grinned. “I’m setting up so that I can help you with whatever you need.” She sounded just a bit too cheerful, as if she were compensating a bit too much. But he would take it at the moment. “I decided to start with finding Detective Zagrando’s history. He’s listed as dead in every database you know.”

  “I know,” Flint said. That disturbed him, but Zagrando had said it was all complicated. And the fact that the man had worked undercover for Earth Alliance Intelligence might have explained the subterfuge.

  “Is it him?” Talia asked, clutching the tablet to her chest.

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure it is.” Flint felt the need to leave at least a small margin of error.

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Flint said.

  Talia hugged the tablet harder. Her eyes were big, her expression solemn.

  “Do the databases say how he died?” Flint asked.

  “It’s weird,” Talia said. “That’s why I was digging into it. He was called to Valhalla Basin’s port on some case, alone, and then he got murdered in a room by some perpetrators. They all got caught, but he died pretty horribly. His body was recognizable, though.”

  Flint frowned. “If that had happened here, the body would have been autopsied.”

  “It was,” Talia said. “There were some strange things.”

  “You read the report?”

  She smiled a little and shrugged.

  He almost smiled in return. His daughter had come back to him. He had missed her.

  “What’s strange?” he asked.

  “His weight, for one thing. Standard VBPD procedure. A monthly health check, including weight and height and general fitness. His general fitness was less when he died, although his heart was stronger and some of the health problems his enhancements had compensated for were gone.”

  Flint wanted to grab the tablet and look at the results, but Talia kept it close. Apparently, she wanted to watch him as she told him the news.

  “But his weight was way off. Like forty pounds off. And he would have had to lose that in two weeks. That kind of weight loss usually means an illness, not an increase in health, at least that’s what my poking around this afternoon told me.” Talia’s gaze met Flint’s.

  He knew the look. It meant she had a theory.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “They ran the DNA,” Talia said. “Standard test, just to make sure, even though he still had his badge in his palm and all of his enhancements and stuff, plus his face was recognizable.”

  “But…?” Flint asked.

  “But there are all these weird aspects to the death. He didn’t put up much of a fight. He had a weapon and they disarmed him. Plus, he went into this room without backup, and he’d been the one called to be there. Like it was a set-up.”

  “That happens,” Flint said.

  “I know it does,” Talia said. “So I looked at the standard DNA tests that VBPD runs. It’s pretty cursory in cases like this.”

  “What are you saying?” Flint asked.

  “The body’s gone, so we can’t recheck. But think about it, Dad. He’s thinner and his heart is healthier and he doesn’t have some of the problems that his enhancements were designed to compensate for and he goes into a trap without backup and he loses his weapon right away—I remember him. He was older than the guy who found me in that closet, and he was sensible and sturdy and I had the sense that he never did something without thinking about it.”

  Flint had had that sense of Zagrando too. In fact, Zagrando had made Flint uncomfortable on Valhalla Basin because Zagrando had the kind of gaze that took nothing for granted. Zagrando had known more about Flint in ten minutes than Flint had ever found out about Zagrando.

  “He wouldn’t have gone into that room alone,” Talia said. “I’m convinced of it. And he wouldn’t have lost forty pounds in that short a period of time. Not even enhancements allow for that. If they do anything, they make you look thin until you are thin.”

  Flint knew that as well. “You’re saying…what, Talia?”

  “I’m saying they killed the clone,” Talia said. “The real guy is here. The clone wouldn’t have known about us, Dad. We’re just a case in his past. We’re not something just anyone would know.”

  Flint frowned. In his haze, Zagrando had muttered, They used a clone to kill me. You know that? It’s why I’m dead. Should’ve been a clue.

  And now, Talia had found things that indicated Zagrando had spoken the truth.

  Flint felt odd. He had his daughter back, and he also felt uncomfortable with what she had found. He sat down in a nearby chair. “The simplest thing to do is to check this man, see if he’s a clone.”

  “I know,” Talia said. “But you can’t ask anyone to do that, Dad. Not right now. Everyone is crazy about clones.”

  There was sadness in her voice. She had run into that with her therapist, and it had been ugly. Flint had had a terrible conversation with the man. Flint hoped that Talia’s conversation hadn’t been quite as nasty.

  “He said his so-called death was complicated,” Flint said, more to himself than to Talia.

  “He did? What else did he say?”

  “Not much,” Flint said. “He was too ill. He gave me a name, and then the doctors carted him off into surgery. Which is why I’m here.”

  He paused, uncertain now if he should ask her to leave the Security Office.

  Talia’s expression brightened jus
t a little. She clearly wanted to do something. That pleased him.

  He would let this be her choice. She had shown an interest, after all.

  “I have Murray at Space Traffic keeping an eye on Zagrando,” Flint said. “Murray assigned a lot of cops to watch the medical unit. And they’re looking for ships that might be in pursuit.”

  Talia was frowning. “He’s in the port still?”

  “They’re operating on him onsite. He was in too bad of shape to be taken away. I’m afraid someone will move in on him while he’s under. I’m also worried that he might wake up, need to talk to me, and no one contacts me.” Flint paused.

  Talia’s eyebrows went up as she considered all of that.

  “I’m also worried that under the influence of whatever drug they have given him, he’ll say the wrong thing. I could go back to the port, Talia, but it means I’ll either be doing research there or I’ll be doing nothing important.”

  Talia’s fingers tightened on the tablet.

  “If there are traffic cops,” she said, “I could go. I know I need to get to the Emmeline if something goes really bad. And if someone tries to harm him, there should be protection nearby. I don’t mind, Dad.”

  Flint’s heart was pounding. He did mind. He didn’t want her in danger again. But he wasn’t really convinced that watching Zagrando was dangerous.

  And she understood Flint’s fears.

  “If you’re willing, then I’d like you at his side.” Flint swallowed hard. He was actually nervous. “Let me know when he wakes up, make sure that no one identifies him or tries to take him off the Moon. If he has to talk, you record it and then contact me. Can you do that?”

  “Yeah,” Talia said. “I don’t have to get him out of there if something goes wrong, do I?”

  “No,” Flint said. “You leave that to the authorities.”

  Talia shrugged. “Then it’s just sitting, right?”

  “And making certain you call him by the right name, and making sure that no one kicks you out of the area. You have to be by his side until I come back.”

  “I can do that, Dad,” Talia said. “As long as you tell me what name he’s registered under.”

  “I will,” Flint said. He extended his hand for the tablet. “No research into Zagrando’s past while you’re there, either. You have to read a book or play a game or do something while you wait. Nothing out of the ordinary for a kid your age.”

  “Wow,” Talia said with a bit of a smile. “I’ll have to imitate a real person.”

  “You can do that,” Flint said. “I have faith in you.”

  She still hadn’t handed him the tablet, so he took it. Then he stood and helped her up. He pulled her into a hug. She leaned into him for just a minute, then stepped back and eyed the tablet.

  “I can work encrypted,” she said.

  “Not there,” he said.

  She sighed. “Can I go there now?”

  “Yeah,” Flint said. “And promise me you’ll stay in touch. If I tell you to leave fast, you will.”

  “I promise,” she said, and almost skipped out of the room.

  He watched her go.

  He hoped he was making the right choice, both for this investigation and for his daughter.

  He would contact Murray Atherton to make certain that Talia was protected—as best as anyone could protect her.

  Then Flint took a deep breath and willed himself to let the worry go. He couldn’t control everything, no matter how much he wanted to.

  At some point, he would have to trust Talia again.

  He might as well start now.

  SIXTEEN

  Ó BRÁDAIGH WALKED Petteway to the elevator. It was farther away from the controls than Ó Brádaigh remembered. Everything in the substructure was far from everything else. That alone was a part of the design that Ó Brádaigh didn’t like.

  Petteway entered, then put his hand on the door. “You coming, Ó Brádaigh?”

  Ó Brádaigh shook his head. “I always take the stairs. I see more that way.”

  “And exhaust yourself further.” Petteway jerked his head toward the back of the elevator. “Take a rest. Come on up this way.”

  “I’ll meet you at the top,” Ó Brádaigh said. “I’m going to take the other stairs up.”

  “Other stairs?” Petteway asked.

  “I took the north stairs down,” Ó Brádaigh said. “I’ll take the south stairs up.”

  Petteway let go of the door. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Ó Brádaigh.”

  The door started to close. “I’ll see you up there, sir,” Ó Brádaigh said.

  “No, you won’t,” Petteway said. “I’m going home. You should too.”

  And then the door closed tightly. If he had said anything else, Ó Brádaigh couldn’t hear it.

  He rubbed his hands over his arms, feeling goose bumps. They weren’t caused by the temperature down here. The environmental system kept everything at a consistent twenty degrees Celsius.

  He was unnerved that Petteway had had the same thoughts that he had had.

  Or rather, slightly different thoughts. Petteway had thought someone could tamper with the controls.

  Ó Brádaigh made his way back toward that wall. He had no idea how anyone would get into the control area, let alone tamper with them. It took levels and levels of clearance for someone to do that.

  And then a shiver ran through him.

  Petteway had levels and levels of clearance.

  Ó Brádaigh’s heart started to pound. He’d known Petteway forever.

  But, then, those Peyti clones had been on the Moon, working as lawyers, for godssake, for decades. No one had suspected them until they went rogue.

  Ó Brádaigh didn’t like how he was thinking. Maybe that was how the bad guys—whoever they were—won this battle of minds and hearts. Maybe their stupid attacks managed to make everyone suspicious of each other, in a way that would nibble at what little trust existed among the disparate communities on the Moon.

  Only Petteway wasn’t part of a disparate community from Ó Brádaigh. Petteway was a co-worker, his boss. They’d had beers on more than one occasion. Petteway had given Ó Brádaigh the needed cover and time off to deal with Fiona after the first Armstrong bombing. It had taken months to get his life in order again, and Petteway had let Ó Brádaigh have the flexibility he needed to tend to his baby daughter and his own broken heart.

  Ó Brádaigh didn’t like that he had even a moment of suspicion against his boss. The man wouldn’t have treated Ó Brádaigh so fairly if he were a bad guy, would he?

  Ó Brádaigh walked back to the nanowall. It looked flat again, undisturbed. Petteway would be upset if he knew Ó Brádaigh was having these thoughts. And what would Petteway think if Ó Brádaigh went into the control room to double-check?

  Would Petteway suspect something off about Ó Brádaigh? Or would Petteway see the behavior as a sign of mistrust? Which it was, of course.

  Ó Brádaigh’s cheeks heated.

  He hated what he had become.

  But he couldn’t just leave this alone. He had to see what was going on inside the control room.

  If that got him fired, well, then, he would move up the chain of command and argue his case. They couldn’t fault him for protecting the dome.

  He hoped.

  He took a deep breath and placed his hand on the access panel, sending the control room his own personal passkey.

  Error 5221

  Entrance Off-Line

  The message appeared across his eyes and on the door itself.

  His heart rate went up. Had Petteway just denied him access to the control panel?

  Then Ó Brádaigh remembered: access to the control room wasn’t determined here or through links. There were other controls elsewhere in the substructures, designed to make it almost impossible for an outsider to figure out how to tamper with the system.

  And Ó Brádaigh had seen Petteway go up the elevator. He couldn’t have denied Ó Brádaigh access
.

  The access had to have been changed earlier, if Petteway had done it. Or it had just been changed now from a different location.

  Ó Brádaigh tried again. He got the same message. His heart rate increased more, and his palms grew damp. He wiped them on his pants.

  His clearance couldn’t have been revoked or he wouldn’t have been able to get into the substructure. And the clearance system was set up so that even if clearances were revoked, the revocation never took place while someone was in a protected space.

  There were too many ways to trap a person down here, even accidentally. The changes in clearance happened outside of secure levels to prevent someone from dying down here.

  Ó Brádaigh glanced toward the stairs. For a moment, he wondered if that system had just been overridden.

  There was only one way to find out.

  He jogged toward the stairs, and placed his sweaty palm on the panel. The door said hello to him like it always had, and then swung open.

  He didn’t leave—he wasn’t ready to leave. He held up a finger as if he were still with another person and had just forgotten something, then headed back to the control room.

  He tried again, and kept his palm on the access panel. He got the error message again. He stared at it.

  Error 5221

  Entrance Off-Line

  Entrance Off-Line. He’d never seen that before, in all his years working for the city. He hadn’t even seen it during Anniversary Day.

  He checked the database of codes that he had in one of his chips. Error 5221, when applied to a control room, did mean the entrance was offline. Offline meant several things, but it didn’t mean that the person trying to get in had no access.

  He scrolled through the meanings and found several that alarmed him.

  The door was broken. The entire control system was damaged. The access panel was broken.

  It went on and on.

  He slipped his fingers against the edge of the door. If the door was broken, it might have been broken open. So he tugged.