Boyagan sighed and began going through a list of names. One by one, he ticked off the local mining and shipping concerns, a few crime families known to dabble in the business of disappearances, some leaders known to instigate trouble among the local religious types, and even a few colorful personalities Ward had never heard of. He stopped Boyagan when he heard one name that really got his attention.
“The Centimanes? You suspected them?”
“Why not?” asked Boyagan. “They have the resources, though they’ve never been known to abduct off-worlders. Recently, they’ve been trying to agitate people over the whole issue of who controls all the extraction and exports. To hear them tell it, the government has sold out our birthrights and is selling them off, piece by piece.”
Ward raised his hand, hoping to skip the politics and stick to the findings. “Go back to the part where you cleared them of any involvement. How did you come to that conclusion?”
Boyagan paused momentarily and sighed. To Ward, he appeared be considering his words before he said them. Either he was trying not to say something defensive, or was looking for a way to convey something sensitive. It didn’t take long for Ward to realize it was the former.
“Mr. Ward, I’m sure you think that a backwater moon like Titan is incapable of monitoring what comes in and out of its ports. I assure you, we know how to do our jobs. Nobody would be able to bring in that kind of hardware without arousing suspicion, and the cost of doing it would have been very noticeable. Especially to anyone looking over their financial records.”
“You got a peek at their finances?” Ward said in surprise. “Did you compel them to hand them over?”
“No need. They volunteered them. Despite what you might think of them, they’re a registered entity on this moon. All of their commerce is subject to monitoring.”
Ward narrowed his eyes at Boyagan. Whether he was cooperating in an official capacity or not, the man was hardly being helpful. And while he dared not accuse him of stonewalling, he did get the sense the dead ends he was alluding to were more than evidentiary.
Unfortunately for Boyagan, under the agreement struck with the Chandrasekhars, and in keeping with interplanetary law, Ward’s access to their findings was total. Doctor Lee was a citizen of Mars, and any information obtained about his possible whereabouts was accessible to a Martian investigator. He really didn’t need the Assistant Director’s help at this point. This visit to the Gendarmerie was more out of courtesy than necessity.
“I would like a look at the forensics, if I may. Are they somewhere I might access them?”
“Of course,” Boyagan replied, bitterly. “Would you also like a copy of the footage, just so you can go over that too?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
Boyagan chuckled. “I hope you don’t mind sifting through it all. Our system isn’t equipped for direct neural uploads.”
Ward tried not to groan, maintaining his fake smile instead. As much as the thought of sorting through what were sure to be some rather large data files bothered him, he knew enough not to take the bait.
“Not a problem. The good doctor and I have the use of some Folios which should speed up the process.”
Boyagan hummed affirmatively. “Yes, curious, isn’t it? Doctor Amaru eschews the kind of enhancements people like yourself take for granted, even though you two come from very similar places. And yet, she seems to do just fine.”
Boyagan and Ward both looked at Amaru, both issuing their false smiles. Amaru looked back at them, stern and bemused at the same time. It was almost as if she was trying to tell them not to drag her into their pathetic game of dick measuring. But as something of an oddity to Ward as well, they couldn’t help looking at her as if she was some kind of middle ground.
“I’m sure we’ll both do fine,” Ward said after a second. “Our main concern is finding our mutual colleague, after all.”
Boyagan went back to the terminal’s controls, shutting down the holoprojector and cueing up the necessary files from their system.
“Well, I can certainly have all the information prepared for you before you leave here. In the meantime, I would recommend you speak directly to one our techs. They can run you through every test they conducted on the transit line.”
“That would be lovely,” Ward admitted. “Thank you.”
Boyagan looked up at him, again taking a moment before answering. “Understand something, Mr. Ward. You’re permitted to be here in part as a courtesy to Doctor Amaru and the people she represents. The only reason I’m allowing you access is because the sooner you find your missing person, the sooner you’ll be out of here, and no longer my problem.”
And because you have to, Ward thought, but decided to take the high road. Better to let Boyagan maintain the illusion of doing this as a favor, and not because he’d been compelled by those above him.
“Well, I thank you anyway. And rest assured, the doctor and I would like to be done with this as soon as possible, too.”
Ward turned to Amaru, who once again looked very uncomfortable she was being talked about in the third person. She shot Ward a look as well, one suggesting she blamed him for their current uncomfortable situation. Under different circumstances, Ward might have found it amusing or playful.
Twenty-Five
“Ozone?” Ward held the small pad further away, as if increased distance would make the results it showed somehow more believable.
“That’s what our survey concluded. We ran every type of scan we have the necessary equipment for on that platform. All we detected was an increase in ozone molecules.”
“And the increase was localized,” Ward repeated. “And transient?”
“Correct. It was faint, but the entire cloud of it was located precisely where Doctor Lee had struck the ground. It didn’t take long to determine it was our Gendarmes, moving around the area, which was causing it to dissipate.”
Ward looked the technician over. He was older and greying, with the same salty demeanor he had noted from Boyagan. He had clearly grown up off-world too, because his frame was small and hunched by Cronian standards. His accent was also interesting, crisp and singular, not quite the mottled jumble Ward had come to associate with most Titans.
For the entire conversation, so far, he had been leaning against the table separating them. Across it were numerous handheld pads containing various aspects of the case. Ward chose to touch on these, addressing what Boyagan had said. “So, there was no usable hair, no prints, or DNA?”
“None,” the technician replied. “We combed it over, testing recovered samples against people who had been seen on the transit line that night. All were accounted for, and our investigators cleared them all.”
“Really?” Ward found this surprising. “You were able to account for the whereabouts of every single person who was taking the transit line that night?”
“We may seem primitive to you, Mr. Ward. By your standards, we surely are. We don’t have a system in place which can monitor the population in real time over the entire planet, and most people living here don’t have embeds which can be tracked. But the transit lines are well monitored, you saw the footage yourself. Every person spied by those cameras and sensors was identified. All those who could still be found were questioned.”
“Could be found? Some have since left?”
“Left and returned, in most cases.”
“Most cases?”
“Yes, some shipped out and never returned.”
Ward understood the technician’s problem. Many of Titan’s folk were associated with transportation and hauling. For every ten people on the platform that night, at least one had to be a jockey, shipping out the next morning or within the next few days. Usually, their work brought them back to the Cronian system eventually. The movements of goods and people were hardly one-way.
Except for those who were unfortunate enough to suffer an accident during their time away. Despite the passage of time and immense progress, spacing was still
hazardous work, and at this end of the System, the equipment wasn’t always the best. Sometimes, safeguards failed, or sensors didn’t alert the crew to an incoming micrometeoroid.
Ward put down the pad, and leafed through the others until he found the one he was looking for: the official list of those on the platform that night. Scrolling over them again, he summarized aloud: “All these people, and not one shred of incriminating evidence?”
“Leaving only two conclusions,” the tech replied. “Either they showed on the platform earlier to deposit their DNA in with the rest, thus throwing us off their scent for when they returned later. Or the perpetrators were perfectly concealed from the moment they arrived until the moment of their departure.”
Ward knew what he was referring to. The stealth fields and the invisible attackers. They had done more, it seemed, to conceal their presence than merely mask their visible presence. Such abilities certainly seemed beyond the ability of ultra-nationalists and religious fanatics. Yet, the hard wall of improbability.
There was always the possibility the Gendarmerie had failed, their methods sloppy and their investigators lazy. It was a tempting thought, and one which Ward had been entertaining even before his arrival on Titan.
Ward looked again at the technician. He certainly knew better than to ask about the man’s qualifications, at least directly. Ward would run a check later, but everything he had said spoke of both experience and competency. He decided instead to work it into conversation.
“You’re not from around here, are you, Doctor?”
“Fitzgibbon,” said the old fellow. “And no, I grew up on Ishtar. Migrated out here along with the others in the sixties, by way of Ceres. Arrived back in ’83.”
Ward nodded. “So, you’ve been a technician with the Gendarmerie all this time?”
“From one to another,” the older man replied. “Medicine and forensics has been a way of life. Even plied my trade when I was in the Belt, ensuring the health and well-being of travelers and miners.”
“And where did you get your training –”
Fitzgibbon promptly cut him off. “I was trained at the Maat Academy of Sciences, Mr. Ward. I can present you with my credentials, if you like. Far quicker than your probing questions, wouldn’t you say?”
Ward smiled. There was no polite way to probe, no complimentary way to question his ability. Yet again, all he was left with was some unsatisfying answers. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been a somewhat frustrating time.”
Fitzgibbon nodded to him and looked about the table with all its devices, spreading his arms wide to encompass the mess they had made of them. “These are for you to read over, I understand. If there’s anything else?”
“No,” Ward said. “You’ve been more than helpful.”
Fitzgibbon grunted and left the room. Ward felt Amaru looking at him from her perch in the corner of the room before long, and turned to look at her. She had been relatively quiet for this part of their visit. Now it was over, he was beginning to suspect it was because she was having a conversation with herself. The look in her eyes suggested she was deep in thought.
“Something on your mind, doc?”
“No,” she said, flatly. “Just disappointed, is all. I was hoping . . .”
“For more?” He ventured. “That’s understandable. You’ve been gone for months, but these backwater guys have come up with nothing.” He eyed the stack of devices again. “Not that they haven’t tried, though. I’m beginning to wonder myself if there’s something we’re all missing.”
“If that’s true, where do we look?”
Ward checked the local time, realizing they had spent the better part of morning and afternoon talking to one person or another in the Gendarmerie. He had some thoughts on where they might go next, but wanted to consider them personally.
“Why don’t you head on back to the hotel? We can come at this fresh tomorrow.”
Her tired eyes looked suddenly intrigued. “Oh, what have you got in mind?”
“A few things. We can see the transit station where it all went down.”
She frowned. “That place will be teeming with people this time of day. What are you hoping to find there?”
Ward wasn’t quite sure how to answer her. The truth seemed to be the only appropriate thing to offer. “Some perspective, I guess. There’s things going on here I can’t see yet. Might do good to be at the actual scene of the kidnapping.”
She didn’t stop frowning, but seemed to accept that in the way of an answer. “What about you, then?”
“I got some things to check on.”
“Lee’s hotel room?” she ventured. Ward scoffed, though not because she was wrong. That was something he’d hoped to do, preferably without her company. But tonight, he had other plans which didn’t involve her hanging around.
“No, there’s someone I want to talk to. Maybe see if I can’t get something from them.”
Twenty-Six
It wasn’t a demanding thing to find someone like Jaida Finch in a place like Huygens. As a public figure, and would-be political leader, her patterns and whereabouts were pretty much public knowledge. Ward assumed they would remain that way until the day came when her organization pushed too hard and caused some real trouble, or perhaps if the Cronian Union did something stupid and tried to outlaw her group.
The hard part, he knew, would be in getting close to her. With Nan always on hand and in charge of her security, he knew it would be difficult to approach her. It simply was a matter of timing and finding the right buttons to push.
True to her habits, Finch was spending the evening at a local haunt.
Cassini’s Grove, said the sign in bright holographic letters.
A bistro specializing in serving vegetable proteins that tasted distinctly like real meat and vegetables. And the drink menu was none too shabby, according to some tourist info Ward consulted. To the local avant-garde, it was something of a favorite hangout. Its main attraction, as far as Ward could tell, was its central location in the Yellow Light District.
For those visiting Titan, it was the one place where all desires – both subtle and intense – might be sated. These ranged from sex – the unsimulated kind – and gaming to drinking and fine dining, or at least what passed for it locally. To outsiders, it might seem ironic the local patriots would choose such a place to frequent. But such was the nature of life in Huygens. There simply weren’t enough domes for people to differentiate all their activities.
As activities went, the district was certainly hopping. Ward was reminded of the pleasure districts of home, of which there were a few planetside. The main difference between the Yellow Light District and Pavanopolis, though, was the lighting. Back home, the domes of Mars (where transparent) showed a landscape varying between the rusty orange of day and the deep blues of sunset. Others were sealed, their many surfaces emitting the characteristic colors of bright red, vermillion, orange, green, pink, yellow, azure and cyan – the parts of the spectrum which ignited the senses and created a general sense of pleasure.
The district he now stood in, as the name suggested, was entirely bathed in yellow light. Its dome, which admitted unfiltered light during the hours of luminosity from the distant Sun (or reflected from Saturn), was identical to the skies of Titan – yellow, dense, and hazy as hell. Another major difference was the people. Though many off-worlders milled about, the average person was both taller and thinner than the average Martian. On Mars, people counted on all kinds of enhancements to ensure their bone density and muscle tissues remained strong and consistent with a standard g. Here, people had to rely on whatever combination of supplements and labor to ensure their bodies didn’t atrophy over time. But regular exposure to Titan’s 0.14 g meant they conformed to the Retro norm – tall and gangly.
this evening, there wasn’t too much in the way of patrons busying up the place. Ward made his way inside, heading directly for the bar, All the while, surveying the place for signs of Finch and her entourage. So far,
nothing.
Which meant he had some time to kill.
“What will you have?” asked the bartender, a lanky man with a balding crown and wrinkled skin.
“Kraken Mare,” said Ward, gambling the drink was still available. Clearly it was, because this was precisely what the bartender began making. Ward watched the man’s deft hands as they gathered all the ingredients and rendered them faultlessly into a glass.
One-part vodka (though grain alcohol did in a pinch), one-part crème liqueur, a splash of orange juice (though the locals often used the powdered mix), a cube of dry ice, and some salt to line the rim.
It was less than ten seconds between Ward placing his order and the final product being plunked down in front of him. He waited for the small chunk of dry ice to dissolve and blew the mist away, sipping gingerly and letting the fine mix of flavors strike his palate. As cocktails went, it wasn’t the most pleasant. But what it lacked in taste, it made up for in appearance and thematic consistency.
Ward used the interval to pop the bartender a quick question.
“Nice set up you got here,” he said, which made the bartender linger. A professional courtesy; the person serving the drinks was always obliged to listen to a talking patron. “Get a lot of off-worlders about?”
The man looked him over, realizing he wasn’t a local relatively quickly. “Thinking you might see someone you know?”
Ward chuckled. “Am I that obvious?”
“Not too much. But you’re clearly not from here.”
Ward didn’t volunteer anything, though he imagined the barkeep wouldn’t condemn him based on his origins alone. Still, he waited for the man to ask.
“Where ya from?”
“Martian born and raised,” said Ward. “Just out this way wrapping up some business.”
The bartender turned around and began busying himself with washing glasses. His next words were spoken over his shoulder. “First time here?”
“Nope. Been here before a few times. Met some interesting people.” A perfect segue for what he had to ask next. “Looking for some of them now. Heard they hang out around here.”
The Cronian Incident (The Formist Book 1) Page 23
