Buried Deep

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  But the hydropower corporation that had bought the rights from BiMela claimed fraud. BiMela claimed ignorance, and went all the way back down the chain, suing the company that M.S.J. Meister had founded. A company that had disbanded in the years it took the hydropower corporation to realize it had bought the rights to a nonexistent stream.

  M.S.J. Meister had vanished as well. But Flint had names to work with: Mary Sue and Meister. He found various spellings and more scams, some connected to BiMela, some not.

  Mary Sue had her fingerprints all over BiMela’s corporate entity, but Meister didn’t. That name ended with the hydropower case.

  But the name began long before that.

  A flashing red light caught Flint’s attention. This table warned him with an obnoxious flashing sign that his free privileges were about to be suspended. He opened the food menu, ordered more coffee than he needed, and a plate of spaghetti that he probably wouldn’t eat.

  The law students behind him were still arguing. Another human had joined the Peyti across the room and was worrying about an interdome law exam. A handful of Dhyos pressed their long fingers together at still a third table, obviously arguing as well.

  A tray piled with cake floated by. Another followed, this time with an entire pot of coffee, a new mug, and a plate of spaghetti covered with a sauce that was too orange.

  Flint took the items, tasted the sauce, winced at its sour flavor, and went back to work.

  Before Meister appeared in the corporate records, she had run individual scams all over the Outlying Colonies. Reading her history was like reading the development of a con artist. Flint would find variations of her name all over the news reports and records, mostly after she had left an area. Because the scams were small, the news rarely made it to the various nations inside the Outlying Colonies. Instead, the news was local and vanished as quickly as Meister did.

  Over time, her cons got larger and more effective. She seemed to be gaining an understanding of the various legal systems and how much they confused the average human in the Alliance. No one knew, outside their own area, what was legal and what wasn’t.

  She took advantage of that.

  The scheme that backfired on her and brought her to the attention of all the Outlying Colonies was her first large scam. She had targeted a group of families, most of whom had come to the colonies after surviving a hideous massacre on Mars.

  Meister told the survivors that the Alliance owed them reparations for the illegal (and horrifying) deaths of their family members. She cited some case law that did in fact exist, which referred to compensation owed crime victims.

  Unfortunately, that case law only applied to crimes committed on Earth. She had left that part out of her scheme.

  Instead, she had told the survivors and their descendents that they were entitled to a lot of money. If they hired her as their legal counsel (at a significant cost per family), she would shepherd the case through the various courts.

  She managed to collect a year’s worth of fees from nearly a hundred families before someone looked up the case law for himself. The families confronted her, she made up some kind of fake story about the law being different now and she would get them the information, and then, that night, she fled the Outlying Colonies—with all of the survivors’ money.

  The news stories ran for nearly another year while the survivors searched for her. Reporters did human-interest stories on the financial burden she had placed on already overtaxed families. Some families lost everything because of her scam. Some family members lost jobs because of the time the members took to work on the case. A few of the older survivors died—a couple of them suicides, the rest because they could no longer afford the very basics of care.

  Everyone else vowed revenge on Meister. And some of the younger members of the most devastated families promised they wouldn’t quit looking for her until she was dead.

  Flint leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers. Mars. Lagrima Jørgen, a.k.a. Mary Sue Jørgen Meister, had been found on Mars, the victim of a murder complete with some kind of corpse mutilation. That showed extreme anger.

  The kind of anger people who lost everything might display.

  He had a hunch he had found the incident that eventually got Jørgen Meister killed. But he still wasn’t close to finding her family or helping the other contaminated people in Sahara Dome.

  He let his hands fall to the tabletop. He wondered if Costard had disappeared yet. She hadn’t really wanted to Disappear anyway, and he was solving this faster than he expected. All it would take was a bit more work, and he would know if he could provide the humans in Sahara Dome with the names they needed to decontaminate their area.

  Flint leaned forward, shut down the tabletop system, and then stood. He would go to Costard first, and if she had already left, then he would contact Sahara Dome himself.

  For the first time in days, he felt like he actually had something positive to report.

  Twenty-nine

  Hauk Rackam, the incoming leader of the Human Governments of Mars, paced in his large office. Three advisors sat on straight-backed chairs, watching him as if he were some kind of new alien species.

  He was terrified.

  He stopped at the edge of his thousand-year-old Turkish carpet and whirled, his ceremonial robe flaring slightly.

  “I don’t have any real powers,” he said. “I can’t legally do anything.”

  “Sir.” Wyome Nakamura stood. She was slight, her dark hair covering her like a gown. “I think we have to worry about legalities later.”

  She could worry about legalities later. It wasn’t her neck on the line. She could always deny involvement: of course I gave him advice, but we all did. In the end, he was the one who had to take it.

  “You’ll be the head of the Human Government next week,” she said. “I don’t think it matters much.”

  “According to the Disty Accords, it does,” he snapped. “They’ll only work with the actual head of government.”

  “Who happens to be in Sahara Dome,” Nakamura said, “which makes him contaminated and unable to have contact with the Disty.”

  Of course, there was no second in command because the position really wasn’t that important. The head of the Human Governments was mostly ceremonial. Usually the main administrative duty was to inform all of the human mayors of the Domes about decisions the Disty had made or changes in human-Disty relationships. Nothing much. No negotiation. No difficult decisions. Just meals and hand waving and the occasional ceremonial summit.

  Rackam had been looking forward to the state dinners and interstellar travel, all representing a not-very-united group of humans on a planet they didn’t really control. He had expected two years of ceremonial acts that would only increase his visibility and make him a little more famous.

  He liked the actual office itself. He’d used government funds to decorate it, down to the faintly citrus scent running through the environmental controls.

  He hadn’t expected anything like this.

  “Sir,” said Thomas Kim. Kim was a fusty little man, anal and precise. “I’m getting reports of hundreds dead.”

  Rackam had asked his assistants to monitor the news channels as well as any messages that came for him. He shut off all but a single link—his emergency family node. He needed to be able to think.

  “Disty dead, I trust,” he said.

  Kim nodded. “In Sahara Dome, outside Sahara Dome and now, they think, in Wells.”

  “Wells?” Rackam hadn’t expected that. The trains had gone through Wells. The crisis was isolated, wasn’t it? Half an hour ago, all the human heads of the Domes wanted to know was what to do with any incoming Disty. “Why have Disty died in Wells?”

  Kim shook his head. “No one knows, sir.”

  Rackam wasn’t a decision maker. That was the real problem. He needed someone who was, someone with the intelligence to handle widespread problems. When he’d gotten enhancements, he had focused on looks and charisma, not
intelligence.

  “We’re still getting no response from the Disty,” said Zayna Columbus. She was heavyset, oblivious to appearance and charisma, and the only one on his staff with real brains.

  Rackam looked at her, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed on one of the screens, her mind clearly far away. He wondered how many images she had running across her vision, and decided he didn’t want to know.

  “All of the Disty or just the High Command?” he asked, trying not to let the panic into his voice.

  “I’ve been trying every organization I can think of,” she said, finally turning toward him. Her pupils were a kaleidoscope of colors, reflecting the various chips and implants she’d had installed.

  “Even the Death Squads?” Kim asked.

  She narrowed those strange eyes at him. “We can’t go directly to the Death Squads. We have enough contamination issues as it is.”

  “Well, find someone who can,” Rackam said. “We’re in trouble here.”

  “Yes,” Columbus said, “we are.”

  She glanced at Nakamura. The two women seemed to understand each other. But he wasn’t understanding them.

  “I have no power,” he said. “I can’t make any decisions. We need a meeting of the Dual Governments. The Disty have to tell us what to do.”

  “The Disty,” Nakamura said as if she were speaking to a particularly dumb child, “are unavailable. What Disty we do see on our links—which you seem to be avoiding—are in such a panic that they don’t seem to be thinking logically.”

  “There is a crisis, and someone has to solve it,” Columbus said.

  “Not me,” Rackam said.

  Kim stood up. His mouth was set in a thin line. “We’ll figure out what to do and you’ll do it. Agreed?”

  Rackam wasn’t sure he could agree. He didn’t have the authority. Was he the only person in the room who understood that? He didn’t have any authority at all.

  “You’re going to close the Domes to all bullet trains,” Columbus said. “You’re going to isolate those trains outside all of the Domes and you’re going to enforce this, with security teams if necessary.”

  The breath left Rackam’s body. “We can’t attack Disty.”

  “We’re going to say we’re protecting Disty,” Columbus said. Everyone in the room was watching her. “Either there’s some kind of virus going through that affects their mind, or some kind of group hysteria. Wells caught it after the bullet trains went through. The trains didn’t even stop. So no Sahara Dome and Wells Disty can get into other Domes. Is that clear?”

  No one had used that tone with him in nearly a decade. He bristled. “They’ll shun me, or worse. They’ll prosecute me, especially if somebody dies. This decision won’t work.”

  Her expression, which had been flat, didn’t change. “You’ll stop the trains, and if the Disty question you, you’ll tell them you were only holding the trains until someone from the Disty High Command got back to you and told you what to do. You could only act on the evidence before you, and the evidence was that something bad was happening to the Disty. You were only concerned for their lives.”

  “They won’t believe that,” he said. “They’ll know it’s not true.”

  “Stop worrying about them,” Kim said. “We have to do something. Do you understand how this will cascade if we don’t?”

  Rackam was breathing shallowly. Cascade? What did they mean, cascade?

  “No,” he whispered.

  Nakamura sighed. Columbus shook her head in disgust. Had they always thought of him this way? Had their respect been feigned?

  He felt his cheeks heat.

  Kim crossed his arms. “All the Disty from Sahara Dome will spread down southward. Now add the Disty from Wells. They won’t go directly south. Some will go east, others west. None will go north because there isn’t much beyond Sahara Dome. So let’s assume this is a crazy-making virus. The large group of Disty will get into another Dome, then its Disty will start to flee. The Disty will keep infecting the Domes and moving until the entire planet is filled with Disty running from something none of us understand. They’ll run out of places to go.”

  Rackam bit his upper lip. “But close the Domes…”

  “Yes,” Nakamura said. “It’s our only choice.”

  “You should think of closing the ports as well,” Columbus said. “The Disty need to stay on Mars until we know what’s causing this.”

  Rackam shook his head. He had finally understood what his team was talking about, and he understood the implications.

  “I won’t close the ports,” he said, “but I’ll close the Domes to any on-world travel. Right now, all the Domes will be isolated until we hear from the Disty. Which better be damn soon.”

  He whirled again, feeling his robe swirl around him.

  He could see the team reflected in the windows. He shook a hand at them.

  “Go on. Begone. Get out of here. Get this done. And don’t bother me until you hear from a Disty.”

  He could see the three of them glance at each other. Then they shrugged and left the room. Someone slammed the door.

  Rackam sank into his favorite cushion, then placed his face in his hands. He had just ruined his own life. The Disty would never forgive him for this.

  He would have to find a way to blame the advisors. Maybe he would find a way to modify the records, or take himself out of the discussion altogether.

  I’m firing them, he would say to the Disty High Council. They seemed to believe someone had to act, so they did. Without my permission. Maybe we can bring criminal charges against them for all the deaths. Would that satisfy you?

  Because it wasn’t satisfying him.

  All he’d signed on for was a ceremonial position.

  He couldn’t handle decisions that resulted in life or death.

  Particularly his own.

  Thirty

  Flint stood in the lobby of the Domeview Hotel. A different woman paced behind the long desk; otherwise, the lobby was empty. Flint had his back to her as he used the automated network to contact Aisha Costard.

  Like before, he couldn’t find her listed on any of the internal servers. Unlike before, she didn’t answer his page. If she had left within the last few days, the system should have shown her as checked out.

  It didn’t show her at all.

  He wasn’t quite sure what to do. He might have to ask for human help.

  As he turned toward the woman at the desk, movement caught his eye. Two men in security uniforms headed straight toward him.

  Flint tensed.

  The men stopped in front of him. Both were larger than he was, and at least one had enhanced muscles. But Flint could outmaneuver them if he had to.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the man with enhanced muscles. He had dark hair and even darker eyes. “You’ll have to come with us.”

  “Did I do something wrong?” Flint asked.

  “We’re under orders to take you with us,” said the man.

  Flint stepped back so they weren’t quite as close to him. “Are you police officers?”

  “No, sir,” said the guard.

  “Then you have no right to take me anywhere. I walked into the hotel, looked up a patron’s name, didn’t find it, and was about to leave. That wasn’t a crime the last time I checked the records.”

  They glared at him. How many hotel patrons didn’t know their rights under Armstrong law? Probably most of them, just like Flint wouldn’t have known what to do or how to behave in some of the alien cultures he’d heard about.

  “I’m a former police officer,” he said into the security guards’ silence. “You can either tell me what’s going on or let me leave.”

  The second guard glanced at his partner. The spokesman stepped just slightly in front of Flint.

  “We’ve been asked to take you upstairs,” the guard said.

  “By whom?” Flint asked.

  “The police.”

  That surprised Flint, but he didn’t
let it show. “Really? Why?”

  “Apparently you accessed a name involved in an ongoing investigation.”

  Now this was beginning to make sense. And the detective in charge was alone or with his partner, so that he had no one to send down to the first floor to get Flint. Instead, he let these amateurs handle it.

  “Well, then,” Flint said. “Bring the detective in charge down here.”

  “We can’t do that,” said the other guard, his voice rising with shock.

  Flint shrugged. “And I can’t go with you. I don’t trust you. So I’m going to leave the hotel.”

  “Sir.” The first man blocked his path. “If I send for the detective and have him contact you, will you go upstairs?”

  “If he has a legitimate City of Armstrong identification code,” Flint said.

  The security guards glanced at each other. These two were so incompetent they obviously hadn’t even checked that themselves. The first man kept his position in front of Flint, but looked down as he spoke under his breath into his own internal links system. An older, less expensive system that didn’t have thought filtering. That didn’t surprise Flint.

  Security guards were poorly paid and had little job security. They couldn’t afford their own upgrades, and the hotel wouldn’t supply them—too many guards quit after getting better links.

  After a moment, the guard nodded. “He’ll contact you.”

  As the guard said that, a message ran beneath Flint’s vision. It was a summons to Costard’s room from a Detective Bartholomew Nyquist. The summons carried Costard’s room number. Nyquist’s City of Armstrong identification code wrapped through the message, almost like a taunt.

  Flint sent that he’d be there in a moment, then shut down many of his own links. Nyquist had obviously gotten Flint’s name and identification, as well as his link code, from the fingerprints he’d left on the screen.

  Flint pushed past the guards. He took the stairs, hurrying so that the guards would have to work to keep up with him. Despite the enhanced muscles, the first guard wasn’t in the best of shape.