by Piers Platt
“Nor will I.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“For now, enjoying a good meal. We’ll talk business later.”
Food on the lower levels of Tarkis came from two sources: Rath’s normal routine was visiting vending machines that spat out processed food packets when you inserted your ration card. The food was optimized to be cheap to produce in mass quantities, have a long shelf life, and be largely tasteless, so that any potential thieves would have little luck trying to sell it or the ration cards themselves. It was subsistence only in the most basic sense – rumor had it that it was heavily-recycled organic waste from the upper levels.
Alternately, Rath occasionally scraped together enough money for a meal from one of the mobile kitchens that roamed the streets, where a chef would cook meals to order. The ingredients were never fresh, but at least the food was hot and had some taste. The kitchens rarely visited Rath’s neighborhood, though – too many had been hijacked and stripped for parts. When his steak arrived, sizzling next to a pile of steaming mashed potatoes and French-cut green beans, Rath put aside his misgivings and dug in.
Afterwards, the detective wiped his hands and mouth with a steaming towel brought by the waiter, and then motioned the man away.
“Okay, on to business. What do you know about the Guild?”
Rath grunted. “The Guild, like, ‘Fifty for Fifty’? It’s an urban legend. Just some fairy tale they made up to make people think there’s a way out of the lower levels.”
“Humor me,” the man said.
Rath crossed his arms. “You sign a contract, and the Guild trains you to be a hitman. You get to keep fifty percent of the profits, but only if you make it to fifty kills.”
“Fifty for fifty,” the man agreed. “You gotta make it all the way to fifty without being killed or caught.”
“Sure. So you kill people and get rich while doing it. Rich enough to eat here every day,” Rath said.
“Rich enough to own this place,” the man corrected. “And a hundred more like it, across the inhabited worlds. If that’s what you decided to do with all that cash. Some go into legitimate business, others stick with crime, and run high-class whorehouses out in the Pleasure Districts. Most just buy their own luxury spaceliner and cruise around deep space, stopping in at the tourist spots when they feel like touching down for a while.”
Rath narrowed his blue-grey eyes. “This is the part where you try to convince me it’s real?”
“No,” the man shook his head. “This is the part where I show you it’s real.”
* * *
The air car descended back to the lower levels, eventually parking behind a battered mobile kitchen truck near a deserted factory. The detective exited the car, motioning for Rath to follow, and walked up to the kitchen’s entrance hatch, whose steel shutters were locked down tight. The door rose when the man approached, however, and Rath stepped in behind him.
Inside, the space was brightly lit – in place of the usual kitchen and dining area, electronic equipment lined the walls. A technician in a lab coat stood next to a padded chair in the center of the room. She nodded to the detective as they entered, and then addressed Rath.
“The truck has a fully-automated security system.” She pointed to a sphere hanging from center of the ceiling. “It will use lethal force if your behavior warrants it. Please have a seat on the chair.”
“Why?” Rath said.
She frowned at the detective. “How much did you tell him?”
The man smiled and shrugged apologetically. “Some. Enough to get him interested.”
“Disclosure is not my responsibility. Tell him,” she said, shaking her head.
The man turned to Rath. “The Guild is real. This is your entrance exam.”
“Who says I want in?” Rath asked.
“You say so – you came here, I just showed you the way. You want to stay stuck in the lower levels, scraping by until your luck runs out?”
“No. But I don’t want to get killed, either,” Rath replied.
“You don’t think you can cut it?” the man asked. “No problem. You can walk out that door and pretend this never happened.”
“Don’t try to manipulate me,” Rath told him. “What’s in it for you, anyway? Are you in the Guild, too?”
“No. As a contracted talent scout, he gets the standard referral bonus, plus one percent of your future earnings,” the technician stated.
The man shot her an aggravated look, but faced Rath again. “Yes, I get my cut. That’s how these things work. Look, kid, you’re not deciding now. She’s going to run some tests, to see if you qualify. If you don’t, you can take your free steak dinner and go, this never happened. If you do qualify, you take a little trip, when you land they tell you more about the program, and then you decide. Tell him,” he finished, addressing the technician.
“You’re under no contractual obligation at this phase,” she agreed. “I’m merely testing your baseline health, including physical and mental abilities – coordination, reaction time, cognitive ability, and the like.”
Rath suppressed a shiver, and eyed the technician for a moment. Then he shook his head, and sat down in the chair.
3
“Ashish, darling … to what do I owe this honor?” the Madame asked, looking up from her desk. “Might I interest you in sampling some of our latest acquisitions?”
“Hello, Marie,” the man said. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m still not interested in any samples, free or otherwise.”
“Still repressed.” Marie clucked her tongue in mock disappointment.
“Still married,” Ashish corrected. “And my wife is mad enough as it is about my visits last year.”
“She doesn’t trust you?” Marie asked.
“I think she knows how easily men can be tempted, especially when presented with such … arresting eye-candy,” Ashish gestured toward the receptionist who had shown him into the older woman’s office, a tall blonde whose blue silk skirt was cut impressively short, even by Juntland’s latest fashion standards, revealing the lace tops of her pantyhose.
The blonde girl smiled coquettishly. “Why, Mr. Mehta – how forward of you!” she joked, tracing a finger over her ample cleavage.
“Yes, that’s exactly the kind of thing my wife was worried about,” he laughed, shaking his curly black hair. He declined the receptionist’s offer of a drink, and sat down in a leather easy chair as the receptionist closed the door behind him.
Marie pushed her computer keyboard aside and steepled her fingers over her desk, arching her grey eyebrows at the young man in front of her. When paired with the high-necked wool jacket she wore, the expression made Ashish think of a stern Victorian governess.
“I must say, Ashish: business has been simply booming since your article came out.”
“Glad to hear it,” he replied.
“Mmm,” she said. “I’m sure you already knew that, however.”
“I might have heard a rumor or two.” He smiled.
“Which leads me to believe that you must be here to call in a favor,” she continued.
“Has the world become such a cynical place that old friends can’t meet without there being an agenda?” he asked.
“Yes, it has,” she replied.
Ashish smiled. “Perhaps so. I need another story,” he told her.
The older woman leaned back in her chair and pursed her lips.
“I’ve done a couple fluff pieces since then, but nothing of any substance,” the journalist continued. “I need a meaty topic, something that will really sell.”
“You want another story about the surprising sexual appetites of supposedly conservative political leaders,” she said. “But those … gentlemen … are no longer my clients, by mutual agreement.”
“Those gentlemen are no longer in office,” Ashish grinned. “But I’m guessing you don’t have any clients left whose hypocrisy you would like to see exposed.”
“No, I do not,”
she agreed.
“So … I was thinking human trafficking.”
“My dear, I hope you’re not implying I deal in that despicable trade. My employees are here of their own volition, I assure you.”
“No, of course,” Ashish said, holding his hands up. “And I hear there’s stiff competition to get hired, no pun intended. I just thought you might have contacts who could put me in touch with that part of the black market.”
“I don’t, actually. I’ve made it a point to distance myself from those kinds of people. Why the continued fascination with the sex trade?” she asked.
“Sex sells,” Ashish shrugged. “I could get a million blogs to run an article about tax returns as long as it had a photo of your receptionist attached.”
“Sex does sell, even now that it has been legalized,” Marie agreed. “But it does not sell headlines as well as death.”
“Death?” Ashish asked. “Who died?”
“Everyone dies, that’s why we are all so obsessed with it as a topic.” She drummed her fingers on her desk for a few seconds, considering. “Yes, I think you might like this one. Answer me this: why is it that people who can afford cutting-edge biotechnology still die?”
“Old age – the natural process. Cells stop getting repaired, the hemobots can’t keep up. Scientists still haven’t figured out how to disable the mortality switch.”
“That is true, but I’m not talking about decrepit people dying in their sleep when they reach their hundred-thirties. I’m talking about young people, with the best cyber-medicine money can buy, and no sign of illness.”
“Accidents happen,” Ashish said.
“They do, but I’m not talking about accidental deaths,” Marie said.
“I don’t think I’m following you ….”
“Think, Mr. Mehta. Young, healthy, rich, powerful people … people whose death might greatly benefit others.”
“Murder?” he essayed.
“Aha,” she said, smiling.
“Sure,” Ashish shrugged. “Happens all the time, despite the vaunted prowess of our Interstellar Police, they can only investigate crimes, not prevent them. Lovers quarrel, friends bicker over money … shit happens, and the murderer goes to jail.”
“No,” she said. “Often they do not. I’m not talking about amateur homicides. I’m talking about the deaths that never even get investigated, because no one knows they happened. Precise, calculated, professional murder.”
Ashish frowned at her for a moment. “Marie, if the next words out of your mouth are ‘the Guild,’ I’m leaving.”
A broad smile spread across her face.
“The Guild?” he sighed. “Really?”
She nodded.
“It’s a bugaboo,” he protested. “A rumor run wild. It’s not real.”
Marie shook her head. “It is very real.”
“Come on,” he protested. “The Interstellar Police all but eliminated organized crime centuries ago. Do you seriously believe an entity like the Guild could remain viable in today’s galaxy? That’s exactly the kind of threat they were formed to combat, back in the old days.”
Marie crossed her arms across her chest. “Have you ever asked them?”
“Who, the police?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered.
“I guess I could,” he admitted.
“And if the Interstellar Police had repeatedly failed to dismantle a crime ring specializing in assassinations, do you think they would publicize that fact?”
“Well, no ….”
“They won’t deny it, either. The Interstellar Police are too savvy to attempt anything so foolish as a cover-up,” Marie noted. “They simply don’t talk about it much unless asked directly. But you can find evidence, if you look hard enough.”
Ashish cocked an eyebrow questioningly. “… and you’ve looked?”
“I have,” Marie said. “Look into an incident on the planet Alberon, twelve years ago.” She paused while Ashish pulled out his holophone, and started up a note-taking application. A digital notepad appeared, floating in the air above the device’s screen. “A number of Interstellar Police died in somewhat spectacular fashion when one of their prisoners escaped from an interrogation room.”
Ashish was typing notes on his holophone. “A guildsman?” he asked.
“They neither confirmed nor denied. But immediately before that, they shut down an entire spaceport for several hours as part of a man-hunt. I think it is a safe assumption it was to catch the man in question.”
“How did you learn about this incident?”
“I was looking for evidence of the Guild,” she told him.
“Why?” Ashish asked.
“I was curious. I wanted confirmation the Guild existed.”
“Confirmation,” Ashish said.
“Yes,” Marie said. “I happen to have my own evidence that the Guild exists.”
Ashish settled back into the chair. “I’m listening.”
Marie smiled, and pressed a button on her computer. A moment later, the door opened, and the receptionist stuck her head through.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Alessandra, can you please check Jordi’s schedule for the day? Is he free now, by any chance?”
The receptionist opened her datascroll, paging through several screens. She gave a shake of her head. “He was, but I’m afraid he’s with a walk-in right now.”
“Ah, so be it. Send him up when he is finished, please. And I think we’ll need a lunch order for two. You can stay for lunch, Ashish? Allow me to treat.”
“Sure,” he agreed.
“How does Gregorian sound? There’s an excellent place just a few levels up.”
“Fine,” the journalist said, nodding.
“Shall we let Alessandra order for us? I like to be surprised, and she has a very refined palate.”
“Comes with the territory when you’ve been kicked out of sommelier school,” the receptionist said, her eyes twinkling.
Ashish laughed. “What were you kicked out for?”
“Distracting too many professors from their wine-tasting duties, no doubt,” Marie said. We’ll eat out on the terrace, since it’s not too humid today.” She stood, and beckoned for Ashish to follow.
Her office opened out onto a sprawling balcony, elegantly decorated with manicured shrubs, a small fountain, and a tented pavilion with a dining area and a bar. Marie fixed herself an ice water with lemon, and brought Ashish a beer.
“Thanks,” he said. “Great view out here.”
“Mmm,” she agreed, sipping her water. “I can see most of the Financial District from here.” Above the jungle canopy, the tall buildings sparkled in the midday heat.
“You can see most of your clients,” Ashish chuckled. He took a swig of his beer. “Who’s Jordi?”
“One of my boys,” Marie said. “We’ll get to him. I have actually had two … interactions … with the Guild. And perhaps more that I’m not aware of, God knows. But two that caught my attention. Jordi is one, the other was a girl named Furene.”
Ashish sat at the table and put his beer down, pulling out his datascroll and a laser pen.
“Yes, go ahead – scribble away,” Marie told him, taking a seat across from him. “About three years ago, Furene developed a close relationship with one of her clients. He was somewhat infatuated, as happens sometimes, but it was harmless. One day he visited without an appointment, and asked Furene to escort him out on the town for the evening. That was unheard of for him – he was married at the time, and very private.”
“He normally just met her here, so his wife didn’t find out,” Ashish said.
“Indeed,” Marie agreed. “And he was a very organized person, always made appointments. Regardless, Furene went with him, but in the morning, she had not returned, and several hours later I received a call from the city morgue. They had tracked me down as her employer.”
Ashish winced. “Not a nice call to receive.”
“No,”
Marie agreed. “My profession has spent a long time laboring to provide a safe working environment for our employees, and setbacks like that pain me greatly. Not to mention she was a nice girl, and a friend. So when the police did not show up to question me about Furene’s activities that evening, I went to them to make inquiries of my own.”
“Naturally,” Ashish said. He watched as Alessandra wheeled a cart onto the balcony, and began setting dishes on the table.
“The police hadn’t bothered to question me because they had already ruled her death accidental, with relatively little trouble. Thank you, Alessandra,” Marie smiled at the receptionist. “Is that a fig sauce on the lamb I smell?”
Alessandra tilted her head slightly. “It is.” She smiled.
“Wonderful,” Marie said.
“Enjoy,” Alessandra told them, before slipping back inside.
“So, it was an accident?” Ashish prompted, after they had both filled their plates.
“Officially, yes,” Marie said. “And I believed them; they showed me their reconstruction of the evening, and even security footage. She left in an air taxi with the client, they checked into a boutique hotel fifteen minutes later, spent some time in their room, and then used their keycard to access the rooftop pool. The camera showed them swimming for a while, and then the client’s phone rang. He got out of the pool, wrapped himself in a towel, and walked out of the pool area to talk in private. When the police interviewed him that morning, he confessed that it was his wife calling – she wanted him to attend a fundraiser dinner with her. So he never came back to the pool, he hurried back to the room, changed, and left Furene a note of apology. He took a cab across town, and was at the fundraiser the rest of the evening. Furene swam a few laps while she was waiting for him, and in the midst of one of those laps, she had a stroke. She drowned, and a guest found her several hours later.”
“I take it Furene didn’t have hemobots,” Ashish asked, finishing a bite of salad.
“I pay my girls well,” Marie said. “But not that well.”
“Sounds like the police got it right,” Ashish said.
“That’s what I thought,” Marie said. “And then the client showed up the following week … and asked to see Furene.”
