Ashok didn’t look at her, but shook his head. “You can’t argue he would give his consent.”
“Not if he’s a murderer, he wouldn’t. And if he is, the instant he gets back on board, that file will be gone. If it’s not already. This may be our only chance.”
“Well, let me see if I can find it,” Ashok said, and set to work.
It took much longer this time, and Sara began to wish they had some coffee, since she had had no more than a restless catnap since going down to the planet that morning. The security patrol passed by, shining a flashlight into the communication center, but they had already evacuated into an adjoining office, and the guard had no idea that the automatically running terminal was in fact trying encryption keys to break into his boss’s private files.
At last the terminal warbled and Ashok ambled over to see what was on his line. When he read the screen, he sat down, his drowsy air gone. “We got lucky,” he said. “We’re in.”
“Is the recording there?” Sara hung over his shoulder.
“Hang on. Yes, it looks like no one’s been in here since it was autofiled. I guess he doesn’t let his ham-handed subordinates into his private cache.”
“Would you, if you had something to hide?” Sara said.
Again Ashok and Sara put on their headnets, Touli lowered the lights, and the show began.
This time it did feel like a personal invasion, as if she were infiltrating Atlabatlow’s skull, looking through his eyes without permission. Sara strove to distance herself from what she/he was seeing, as if it were only a moving image. The quality of the recording was much higher than Thora’s. They saw Sara ask about the way back, and heard the colonel tell them to wait as he started off to scout the path. He encountered nothing remarkable before turning around. As he came back there was a jerk, as if he had momentarily stumbled, and then he entered the clearing. It was empty except for the equipment. Not a sign of Thora.
“He never saw her,” Ashok said.
“Just a second,” Sara said. “Run it back. I want to see that bit where the picture skips. Do it slow this time.”
When they played it at a crawl, it was clear to see that there was a discontinuity in the recording, a splice where the picture jumped between one second and the next. “Isn’t that what it would look like if he had turned off his headnet and turned it on again?” Sara asked.
“It could be that,” Ashok said thoughtfully. “It could also be from the interference.”
“I don’t know why I thought he would have recorded a crime. He’s way too smart for that. Of course he would have shut off the headnet, and then retraced his steps to create a false record.”
“But Sara, there’s not enough time,” Ashok argued. “This glitch happens at the same point where his beacon disappears. Then there’s no record of anyone’s location for about six seconds. That’s not enough time to kill someone, dispose of the body, and return to the starting point.”
Sara’s thoughts felt like glue. She felt sure she could work it out, if she could just sit down with the data for a while. But as she was drawing breath to continue, the terminal screen went black, except for a single blinking cursor. Ashok swore.
“What’s wrong?”
“We were detected. He must have had a break-in tracer. He’ll know which terminal we used.”
“I think it’s time to cut and run,” Touli said calmly.
As they retreated down a hall that led to the maintenance areas, they heard booted footsteps coming to a halt behind them at the door to the communication center. There was a low conversation, then the sound of the door opening. While the guards searched the room, the three culprits escaped.
* * *
Sara lay on the bed in her darkened berth, listening to Thora’s quiet voice on her earphones.
She had stopped by Thora’s berth on her way back, forcing herself to keep going in the precious hours before the Security bureaucracy organized itself to clamp down. So far, Thora was officially only lost; there was no criminal investigation, so her door was not yet sealed. Using old skills, Sara had hotwired the door lock and gotten in. The berth, unlike her own, was immaculate, regimentally ordered, everything in place. It had taken her several minutes of searching to conclude that there was nothing of any interest there. Then, just as she was about to leave, she found the box of recording chips, identified only by date. Without stopping to play any of them, she pocketed the box and left.
It turned out that Thora Lassiter had been a compulsive diarist. Every day, sometimes twice or three times a day, she had dictated entries into a little handheld recorder. At first, Sara had been elated at the discovery. But now, after listening for over an hour, perplexity had set in. Thora was as much of an enigma as ever.
The woman rarely spoke about the ship, or events of the day, or other people, the types of things that filled Sara’s life. Instead, the audio diary was internally focused. Dreams, musings, memories, and speculations filled Thora’s journal. She was torturously self-aware, always critiquing herself, analyzing her own motives. The slightest event led to endless echoes of self-examination: why did I act so? why did I think of acting another way? did I want some other outcome, or am I content? if I had acted otherwise, what would that have reflected about me? was there some better way I could have acted? what do I mean by “better?”—and on and on, to a paralysis of introspection. It was a miracle that the woman could stir from bed, Sara thought.
It was entirely foreign to Sara’s own method of living. Her mind had never struck her as a terribly promising research topic. It was an uncomplicated affair, motivated mainly by the twin desires to escape boredom and not to get caught doing the things that prevented boredom. She preferred to barrel forward through her day, collecting new experiences, regardless of their impact on her character. Living as Thora did, in a world of her own thoughts, would have been like prison.
Impatient to find something useful, Sara decided to search for keywords. The first she tried was “Atlabatlow.” There was only one hit, a rather striking entry on the night of the murder. He almost had the look of a man in love, Thora had said. The idea boggled Sara’s imagination.
Because his name turned up nothing else, Sara searched next for “Orem.” This word turned up several entries. She settled back to listen.
from the audio diary of thora lassiter:
I had thought my memories of Orem were gone forever, erased by those clever mentationists who treated me. But since arriving here, puzzling pieces of them have started coming back, especially at night. They are disturbing, because they make it impossible for me to pretend that I wasn’t truly ill.
This is one memory:
A child is approaching down the long gallery, dwarfed by the towering vault. Strips of dusty sunlight paint the limestone floor, shaped by the line of tall, narrow windows on the west. As the child passes through them, she is alternately bright and dark, gilded then tarnished all the way up the hall.
My companion ignores her approach. “We have always thought of you Capellans as childlike, impulsive people,” she says. “You seem to indulge every whim, every craving, as if you had never outgrown your infancy. You even traffic in entertaining fables, as if we were children to be lulled asleep.”
“We traffic only in things there is some demand for,” I say.
“That troubles me. I do not like the reflection of ourselves I see in the mirror you hold up to us. I have come to realize you are predators in your way, but you prey not on what is noble in us, but what is base.”
The child is close enough to hear us, but still Kithmother Laocata does not acknowledge her presence. She is nine or ten, dressed in an intricately patterned dolman and sandals. Her straight black hair shines lustrous when the sun touches it. She is carrying a plate of dried fruit.
I stay silent, not certain where Laocata is leading. There is a thriving black market in Capellan entertainment on Orem. My original mission was to make it an open market, so that the legitimate copyright holders
would profit. But the mission changed as we found how faulty our knowledge of Orem was. We had assumed that in a strictly male-dominant society like this, our dealings would be with the pack leaders. It took us several months to discover our mistake. In fact, the men of power here despise commerce and money as women’s work, and only spoke to us because they thought our talk of trade was a screen for our real interest in arms and alliance. War and politics are the male sphere. Once we realized this, I became our chief negotiator. At last we are talking to the right people, and things are beginning to move. But I have been deceived by Orem before this.
“But you,” she says, “have changed my mind about Capellans. There is a core of discipline in you. Perhaps your licentious indulgences do not weaken you, as they do to us. Perhaps you even get strength from them.”
She is fishing for information, but I don’t know what she wants. “No two Capellans are alike,” I say. “We all come from different planets, different cultures.”
At last she turns to look at the child. She has come to a halt at the base of the three steps that lead up to the platform where Laocata brought me to see the frescoes. The whole thing seems oddly staged. “Well, Kirwa, offer our guest some refreshment.”
The girl seems to gather her strength to mount the steps, and when she stands before me she sways as if the effort makes her lightheaded. She holds out the plate, and I take a fruit, having learned never to refuse food, no matter how unwanted.
“How long has it been since you ate?” the old woman asks the child.
“Three days, Kithmother,” she says.
“You have touched nothing?”
“Only some fruit juice at sundown.”
“Good girl. Are you ready for your wedding tomorrow?”
The child’s eyes fill with tears and she looks down. The tray in her hands trembles a little, but she manages to say, “Yes, Kithmother.”
My heart goes out to her, she is so obviously terrified. It is not my place to pass judgment on their culture. All the same, I cannot restrain myself from saying quietly, “Isn’t she a little young?”
Laocata’s tone is indifferent. “She is lucky anyone will take her. She has no family, no fortune. All she has to recommend her is youth.”
And that only recommends her to a child predator. I remind myself there is nothing I can do. Even to think it is against my instructions.
From behind my left ear, a voice speaks then. It is a gusty voice, like wind, and stirs my hair. It says, “I am here.”
I turn to see who has spoken, and realize that one of the frescoes is burning. It is a circle of fire, of a pure white color, and odd as the sight is, I have the conviction it is deeply meaningful. Certainty fills me then, and I turn to the child, Kirwa. “Don’t worry,” I say. “You are protected.”
I have no idea why I said it. A moment later, I do not believe it is true. But she is gazing at me with such hope, I cannot take it back. I look at Laocata. She has a puzzled expression that tells me she has neither heard the voice nor seen the fire. She dismisses Kirwa then. I watch the child withdraw, back through the columns of light.
“How did you know?” Laocata asks.
“Know what?”
“That she is an abindo child.”
That means her parents were locked in a violent, predator-prey relationship outside their marriages. I started out thinking the forbidden abindo relationships were aberrations, but now I think they are more common than anyone admits. “What does that mean for her?” I ask cautiously.
“It means she will be prone to the madness herself someday,” Laocata says. “Her husband is a fool to take her. Either he feels invulnerable, or he is hoping to taste madness himself. If so, he is deluded. Only men with the self-control of great kithfathers prevail in abindo.” She looks at me, eyes like black marbles. “That girl’s father failed the test. The child is the living evidence.”
Why is she telling me this? I am growing uncomfortable under her piercing gaze. She says, “You see, we do not need to import your weaknesses. We have weaknesses of our own. But even they are strengths.”
There is something challenging about her expression, as if daring me to say more. But I have already said too much, so I am silent.
* * *
Late the next morning, Sara went down to the clinic for a bracing dose of news and commentary from Doctor David. Gossip was the only real sport aboard the Escher, and many were highly skilled at it, but David was a championship-level competitor. He always seemed to know what was going on. She found him in his office, looking jaded and satirical.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He said, “Oh, insurrection, rebellion, turmoil. The usual.”
“About the ban on travel to the planet?”
“Oh no, that’s yesterday. I take it you haven’t seen the latest directive from Lord Nelson.”
Sara hadn’t checked her mail that morning, so David handed her a copy. It was a memo to all department heads, demanding reports summarizing their scientific discoveries so far. All new discoveries were to be listed on a cover sheet in bullet-point format in clear, nontechnical language. Each report was to conclude with a section summarizing how the expedition would improve the lives of ordinary Capellans. The reports were due by the end of the day to Mr. Gibb in Public Relations.
“Our admiral is a little rusty on the concepts of peer review and replication of results,” David said drily. “Not to mention the research process.”
“He’s getting pressure from home because of all the bad news we’re generating,” Sara said, handing the memo back. “It’s a diversion to distract his bosses.”
“You know that. I know that. The scientists thought they were here for the sake of knowledge. They’re all walking around like cats petted backwards, hissing about violations of professional standards.”
Sara could understand their point. The kind of public announcement that would make Nelson Gavere look good would make the scientists laughingstocks with their peers back home. He needed product; they needed prestige.
“The person he ought to be putting pressure on is Dagan Atlabatlow,” Sara said. “A dramatic rescue would solve his problem.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen,” David said.
“What’s the story there?”
David’s tone became more grave. “They’ve been using the shuttle to fly over the search area, doing infrared mapping. So far, no luck.”
“Infrared kind of assumes she’s alive,” Sara said.
“That’s been the assumption up to now. The colonel came back to the ship by lightbeam a couple of hours ago to report to the Director. It looks like they’re going to change strategies.”
Sara was about to ask another question when there was a knock on the door and David’s assistant, Bakai, looked in timidly. “There’s a security guard out here looking for Magister Callicot,” she said.
Sara got up, trying to look nonchalant. “Well, duty calls,” she said.
“Is that what they’re calling him now,” David muttered.
When the guard showed her into Colonel Atlabatlow’s office, she found it unrevealing—spartan and professional, with no hints of personality. No pictures of faraway family, no diplomas on the wall, no files open on the desk. The man himself was freshly shaved, wearing a crisp new uniform, but he looked haggard, as if he had not slept for two days. He gestured Sara to a seat facing him across his desk. The guard who had fetched her stayed in the room, standing against the wall behind her.
“I must warn you that this conversation is being recorded,” Atlabatlow said.
“I have no objection,” Sara said. Two could take advantage of that.
“Please state your name and title.”
Sara did.
“Were you a member of the party that was present when Emissary Lassiter disappeared?”
“You know I was. You were, too.”
His eyes on her narrowed for a moment, but his voice remained neutral. “Ple
ase describe in your own words what happened.”
Sara recounted the events, cautious not to elaborate with facts she had learned the night before. Atlabatlow listened carefully, utterly still. Sara found herself wishing he had some nervous tic to make him seem human. Whoever had manufactured him had left out the verisimilitude.
When she finished, he leaned back a millimeter, but his gaze never left her face. She tried meeting his eyes, but found she couldn’t win at that game.
“Did you know Emissary Lassiter before arriving here?” he asked.
“No,” she said, wondering what the question revealed about his investigation.
“You were quite friendly with her. Why was that?”
“Because I’m a nice person,” Sara said. “She looked left out, kind of lonely, like she didn’t fit in. So I tried to befriend her.”
“Was that because of her reputation?”
“No. I was traveling from Andaman to Capella when all the mess about Orem happened. I didn’t hear about it till I got here.”
“Did she confide anything to you about fears or suspicions she may have had?”
“No. Not even when I asked her.”
He watched her intently. “What did you ask her?”
“I asked her about you. Whether you made her uncomfortable.”
Finally, she got a reaction. He made not a sound, but it was as if a furnace door had opened. The desk between them suddenly seemed too narrow.
“Why did you ask her that?” he said in a tone as smooth as a cat’s purr.
Good riposte. It was impossible to bring up his planet of origin without seeming ethnically prejudiced. So she feinted. “You’re not exactly the warm and fuzzy type. You make a lot of people uncomfortable. Sorry to be frank.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He studied her for a long time without speaking. She wondered if he was considering whether to escalate this duello. His next question answered her.
“Before you left Capella, did you receive any instructions regarding Emissary Lassiter?”
She realized she was going to have to lie on the record. Had he known that? “No,” she said.
Dark Orbit Page 8
