Buried Deep

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “We need those survivors as quickly as possible,” DeRicci said.

  The governor-general glared at her. “I am aware that this is an emergency.”

  “Good,” DeRicci said. “Because there’s still a lot that can go wrong.”

  Fifty-one

  Jefferson stepped through the tiny square door, feeling like he was visiting a child’s playground. He’d never been to the Disty section of the compound before. He felt uncomfortable going there now, but Fifty-six wasn’t going to come to him.

  They were going to meet on Disty turf.

  Jefferson had sent a dozen messages since he received word from Armstrong that survivors of the massacre had been found. Half a dozen Disty specialists on the human diplomatic team had assured him this would solve the problem.

  He wasn’t sure how, but this time, he was smart enough not to ask.

  He only wished he had been smart enough not to lose his temper with Fifty-six in the first place.

  Number Fifty-six had clearly lost his temper with Jefferson too. Fifty-six hadn’t taken any of his messages. Finally, one of the Peyti delegation had intervened.

  Jefferson still didn’t understand how Fifty-six’s pride was more important than the death of hundreds of his people, but then, Jefferson had come to realize he understood next to nothing about the Disty.

  Certainly, he didn’t understand how they lived. He had been warned that the quarters would be cramped and claustrophobic, but he hadn’t realized how very tight they were. He had to walk while crouched, and it only took a few moments for his back to protest.

  The lighting was thin, and the walls were so close together that they brushed his shoulders. There was only room for one human in a passage, although ahead of him he saw two Disty pass each other. Fortunately, neither Disty came his way, and he had the corridor all to himself. If he hadn’t downloaded an area map and hadn’t placed it in his vision, he would have been lost a long time ago.

  The entire area smelled vaguely of unwashed skin and old wood. Other lingering odors—he assumed (he hoped) they were cooking odors—caught his nose whenever he reached a cross-corridor, and that was most of the time.

  Finally, he reached the set of rooms that belonged to Fifty-six’s delegation. The door at the end of the corridor was open, and a Disty bade him to come inside.

  Jefferson had no idea if that Disty was one he’d seen before or not. He was still having trouble with all but the largest distinctions among them. He hoped no one expect him to remember them.

  The interior of Fifty-six’s rooms wasn’t quite as cramped as the corridor. Jefferson could stand upright, but his head brushed the low ceiling. He wouldn’t be able to sit on a tabletop here, not that he saw any. The furniture was built into the walls—seats like boxes came out squarely and folded against the floor.

  In a far room, he saw a Ping-Pong table, but it wasn’t being used. The Disty had adopted few human things, but Ping-Pong was one of them. The other was the game Go, which had always worried Jefferson. Go was a game of strategy. It suited the devious mind.

  The Disty who had let him in led him to a chamber toward the back. Its walls were covered in red velvet, and the place smelled of a mixture of lilac, tobacco, and incense. Jefferson’s eyes watered, and he had to use all of his personal strength to hold back a sneeze.

  It took him a moment to see Fifty-six. Fifty-six was wearing a red velvet robe, which looked five sizes too big on him, and he sat on a carpeted mound in the middle of the floor.

  “This is our negotiation room,” Fifty-six said. “We redesigned it with humans in mind. We can be on a platform, but you won’t have to bend quite so much.”

  “Thank you,” Jefferson said, uncertain how else to respond.

  “I am told by a reliable source that you beg forgiveness for your crude and insulting remarks earlier,” Fifty-six said, as if that were a foregone conclusion.

  Jefferson would never beg forgiveness of anyone. He had negotiated his way out of delicate situations in the past, but he had never done so by placing himself so squarely in the wrong.

  This time, apparently, he had no choice.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  Then he bowed his head, hoping he was contrite enough.

  “Sit,” Fifty-six said. “Tell me your proposal.”

  Jefferson sat on the platform, surprised at the bit of cushion beneath. He almost forgot to bend and touch his head to the top of the platform. He hoped that Fifty-six wouldn’t take offense at the momentary lapse.

  Jefferson kept his forehead down until Fifty-six told him to sit up. “Through extensive research, we have found survivors of that massacre. Most are in the Outlying Colonies and cannot be here in any swift amount of time. But twelve are on the Moon.”

  Fifty-six templed his fingers and raised them. “I thought no one knew of this event.”

  “Apparently, there are records of it in the Outlying Colonies. The woman who was killed—whose body we initially found—had tried to steal money from the survivors, and her body was placed there as some sort of sign.”

  Fifty-six waved one hand in dismissal. “I am intrigued by these survivors. Are they descendents?”

  “Immediate relatives,” Jefferson said. “We searched for those first. These people were actually present at the massacre and managed to escape.”

  Fifty-six folded his hands back together, then bowed his head. He said nothing for a very long time.

  Jefferson wasn’t sure what Fifty-six was doing. He had no idea how tightly the Disty were linked or if there was even any kind of network among them. He didn’t know if Fifty-six was just thinking, meditating, or communicating.

  Then Fifty-six raised his head. “You are certain these are the survivors, the actual survivors?”

  “Positive,” Jefferson said.

  Fifty-six pressed his templed fingers against his face.

  “There is hope then,” he said with something that sounded like relief. “There is finally hope.”

  Fifty-two

  The governor-general was still using DeRicci’s office as if it were her own private conference center. She sat in the center of the room, looking like a wizard as she worked the screens above the see-through desk.

  DeRicci left, glancing at Popova. She had dozens of people on her personal screen, and several assistants, some DeRicci hadn’t seen before, crowded the front office, trying to cajole, convince, and coordinate the various aspects of the survivor roundup.

  DeRicci couldn’t find privacy anywhere. She had been thinking about the pilot situation and she could come up with only one solution. But she didn’t want anyone else to know about it.

  She avoided the elevator and took the back stairs to the third floor. There she found offices still under construction. She took the office in the very back—one with no windows—and hoped it had no surveillance equipment either.

  She sat in the middle of the floor and contacted Flint. It took him a moment to answer. Behind him, she heard the rumble of voices.

  He wasn’t alone.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Stefano’s Restaurant,” he said. “Why?”

  “I need to talk to you in private.”

  “You want to come to my office?”

  “There’s no time,” DeRicci said. “Go somewhere and call me back.”

  Then she signed off. She waited five minutes and was about to call him back when her link chirruped. She answered and saw Flint’s pale skin and startlingly blond hair fill the tiny screen she had raised in her vision.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Is this private?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’ve secured my line and encrypted as much as possible. Have you?”

  She didn’t know. All of that level of tech was beyond her.

  “You haven’t, have you? Let me.” He did something. His image bounced, floated into bits, and then returned. “That’s the best I can do from this distance.”

  She di
dn’t want to know what he had just done. His ability with computers and links and chips always disturbed her.

  “What’s so important?” he asked.

  “Do you still have your ship?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I need to hire it. I’ll pay you out of my own discretionary funds. I can’t track this.”

  “What’s going on, Noelle?”

  “We don’t have a way to get the survivors to Mars. I’d like to hire you to do it.”

  He let out a small sigh. “I’m not in the police business any more, and I’m not for hire as a pilot.”

  “Miles, we have no one else. I either hire you or some unknown company, and I’m afraid to do that. First of all, you know the risks. Secondly, you’ve handled delicate situations in space when you were with Space Traffic Control. Third, you know how to dodge the press.And finally, I trust you, Miles. I’m afraid to give this one to anybody else.”

  “You realize that the Disty consider me contaminated,” he said.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” she said, not because she was convinced of it, but because she had forgotten. If Flint couldn’t do this, she didn’t know what she would do.

  “I’m pretty sure of it,” Flint said.

  “Well, don’t tell anyone,” DeRicci said. “I’m certainly not going to bandy your name about.”

  “If it comes out that you hired me, you could get into a lot of trouble.”

  “So be it,” she said. “I’m already being called a bigot. It’s all over the news that I’m not letting the Disty in because I hate them.”

  His expression sobered. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. You weren’t the offending partner.”

  “No one should have said that. I don’t care how jealous he was.”

  She grinned. “That was my take on him too.”

  “But bad press is one thing, Noelle. The chief of police wouldn’t take my call today because she doesn’t want to be in contact with a Retrieval Artist, even one that used to work for her. Hiring me could cost your career.”

  “Like I care,” she said. “People are dying.”

  Flint smiled. “You’re never going to be a politician.”

  “I could have told you that. In fact, I think I did.”

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked, and she felt herself relax.

  “Get to the port and wait for instructions,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll have some for you soon.”

  “How many survivors am I taking with me?” he asked.

  “All of them,” she said. “We hope.”

  “I’ll be ready,” he said, and signed off.

  DeRicci buried her face in her hands. She was shaking. She had lied to Flint. She did care about her career. It was just out of her control now.

  So she would do what she always had. She would do what she thought best—until someone, or something, proved her wrong.

  Fifty-three

  Flint got to Armstrong’s Space Port in record time. The port was unusually empty, since no flights were landing at all. He saw no one he knew as he made his way to Terminal 25 where the Emmeline was housed.

  The Emmeline was named for Flint’s daughter. He wished he could find a way to give her a more permanent memorial; naming a yacht after his child seemed like something the idle rich did. And while he was rich (and having trouble remembering it), he was not idle. He was just beginning to think he was the only person who remembered his baby girl.

  The survivors might wonder why they were being dragged into this part of the port. In fact, so might the authorities that brought them here. Terminal 25 was the largest terminal, partly because of the size of the vessels that docked here. They were all owned by the very rich, and were all oversized.

  That was probably another reason DeRicci had contacted him. She knew his yacht was large enough to carry twelve people in comfort.

  She also knew he had enough weaponry aboard to blast his way through the Disty perimeter just outside of Moon space, or anything else he might run into. He constantly upgraded the Emmeline. If a new weapons system came out, he installed it. If an improved drive came out, he installed that too. He also added things that he had become used to during his turn as a Traffic cop: a brig, hooks on the sides of chairs for handcuffs, and redundant security systems that weren’t linked to each other, so no one person could easily take over the ship. He also had handheld weapons in the cockpit and in his private quarters. The weapons were concealed, and were keyed to his palm print.

  The outside of the ship had no identifying markings. It was black and sleek, built for speed, shaped like a bird with its nose pressing slightly downward. There were other yachts in Terminal 25 that were bigger, many that were more impressive, but none had the speed, agility, and security features that the Emmeline did.

  Flint sat outside the ship, on the dock itself, and waited, just like he had been instructed. He had no idea how he would take all of these disparate people to Mars—the site of the greatest tragedy in their lives. How had DeRicci convinced them to donate their time—and perhaps their future—to rescuing the descendents of the very people who had murdered their own families?

  Flint hoped the flight would be as easy as DeRicci seemed to think it would. This was a level of involvement he didn’t want—one he was only doing for his friend.

  Although that wasn’t entirely true. As she had said, he knew what was at stake, and he knew that few others would help or have the skills to do so.

  He was beginning to realize that no matter how hard he tried to stay out of things, he would fail. Somehow he always found himself in the middle of a crisis, and he never could walk away.

  No matter what was at stake.

  Fifty-four

  Jefferson stepped out of the tiny door that marked the Disty wing of the compound, and stood upright for the first time in hours. His back ached, his head ached, and he was covered in sweat. He was also shivering; the air in the main corridor was thirty degrees colder than the Disty kept their wing.

  Several assistants, the lower-level human-Disty ambassadors, and Chief Protocol Officer Ogden all met him. They were waiting by the floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetted against the backdrop of snow that seemed to extend forever.

  “Well?” Ogden asked. “What do we have to do?”

  “We have to get the survivors to Lowell. It has the largest Dome on the southern hemisphere of Mars. From there, the survivors will be taken to some smaller Dome, where they’ll conduct a ceremony with the Contaminated Ones. It’s going to take time to get them to Wells and Sahara Dome. We’re going to have to compensate these people and their families somehow. I’m not sure we can justify this otherwise.”

  He wiped the sweat from his face. He felt like he had been up for three weeks.

  Ogden put a gentling hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He looked at her, blinked, and realized he hadn’t really seen her at all. Her face was pulled into an unusual frown, the shadows under her eyes deep, a line across her forehead looking new. He had never had much feeling for her; he had always thought her job dull but necessary, and felt that only a fussbudget could perform it well.

  “No,” he said and staggered toward one of the chairs in the hallway. He sat, then leaned against the back, feeling cold seep in through the windows.

  “Is it physical?” Ogden asked as she followed him. “Must I notify someone?”

  He shook his head. The human representative to Mars watched him, as did the other human representatives to the Disty. They all probably thought they could have done better than he had.

  “They want a Death Squad to meet the ship in orbit. The Death Squad is going to take the survivors to Lowell.”

  He closed his eyes for a half second, felt dizzy and weak, and opened them again. Everyone was still staring at him.

  “I agreed to it,” he said. “And I have no idea what a Death Squad is.”

  The silence that followed his wor
ds was profound. Maybe they felt that he was stupid, but they hadn’t been in that red velvet, overheated room, with Disty all around, their little bodies pressing against the platform, their oblong eyes watching his every move.

  “It’s their version of an undertaker,” the Mars representative finally said. “And more.”

  “Combined with assassins,” one of the other representatives said. “They’re the ones who do the vengeance killings.”

  “Only because they handle everything to do with death. This has to do with death. I’m sure that’s why they’re in charge.” The Mars representative rubbed her elgonated hands together.

  Jefferson didn’t trust the movement.

  “You’re afraid you’ve killed them,” Ogden said, so softly that only he could hear. “That’s why you spoke of familial compensation.”

  “Fifty-six had me in a corner. He agreed on the record that his people will stop blaming us if we let them handle the survivors their way.”

  “Stop blaming us?” said the second representative, another young woman. “What does that mean?”

  Jefferson looked at her. He apparently had been speaking loud enough to have been overheard.

  “If the Disty stop pursuing this massacre as an act done only to take the Disty off Mars, then we actually have some basis for discussions. We’ll probably have to make even more concessions to them—after all, it’s their people who are dying—but we won’t have economic and physical liability. Which is a good thing, in this current economy.”

  “I thought Alliance members can’t sue each other,” the Mars representative said.

  “The countries can’t. The representatives for various governments can’t. But the corporations can and individuals can. It would have gotten ugly, and not just on the legal side. We might have lost our entire claim to Mars.”

  He leaned his head back, feeling the cold glass against his scalp.

  The representatives still stared at him as if they couldn’t understand what he had done, agreeing to something involving a dozen human lives, something he hadn’t entirely understood.