by John Bowers
"Who are you?" she repeated. "What's this about?"
He gazed at her with eyes that made her skin crawl. He slowly settled onto a footstool, resting his elbows on his knees.
"You ever seen a women's prison on Sirius, Miz Lincoln?"
She gulped, hating the weakness, knowing he understood its meaning.
"Yes."
He nodded encouragingly. "That's good, Miz Lincoln. Cause then I don't need to explain to you what life is like in a women's prison. I don't need to tell you about the food, or the whuppin's, or the weekly schedule for fuckin'. I don't need to tell you that the guards in women's prisons are the lowest paid men on Sirius." He smiled cynically. "You know why they're the lowest paid, Miz Lincoln? It's because there is a big long line of men volunteerin' for the work. They volunteer because of all that caged pussy jist sittin' there waitin' for them. Did you know that?"
Her stomach churned, but somehow she managed to keep an angry look on her face.
"This is all very interesting," she told him. "What did you want to talk to me about?"
He smiled briefly.
"Keep it up, Miz Lincoln. A pretty girl like you will find lotsa boyfriends in lockup. Lotsa boyfriends."
"I haven't broken any laws," she said.
His eyebrows shot up.
"You sure about that? No laws at all?"
She leaned forward, fighting to keep the tremor out of her voice. "What exactly are you trying to tell me?"
He tilted his head again, insolence in his eyes.
"We have him, Miz Lincoln. We have your serf buddy."
Good god!
"What — what 'serf buddy'?"
"The old niggo you met at Traver Ranch. Code name Charlemagne."
Victoria felt her lungs seize. Charlemagne. Charley Main.
"I-I don't know anyone by that name."
He nodded slowly.
"I see. You don't know him. Well, then, I reckon I musta made a mistake."
He stood up, stretched lazily, and pushed his hands into his pockets.
"Then let me jis' say this, Miz Lincoln. We welcome foreign nationals as guests here on Sirius, but we take a mighty dim view when those same guests decide to shit on us."
Victoria stared up at him with bated breath.
"Be careful where you shit, Miz Lincoln. Be mighty careful where you shit."
He pinned her with his lifeless blue eyes for another moment, then turned toward the door and let himself out.
As soon as the door materialized behind him, Victoria fell back into her chair, sobbing tears of relief.
* * *
In a small control room near the top of the apartment building, a man sat staring at a lighted display screen. When his communicator beeped, he spoke into his implant.
"Wolfhound Three."
"Is everything set up?"
"Affirm. Overrides in place, bypass set. How'd it go?"
"'Bout like I expected. She acted innocent. I gave her a chance to come clean, but no go."
The man in the control room nodded. "So …"
"You have a green light. Proceed with Plan Bravo."
"Plan Bravo. Understood." The man in the control room leaned forward and flipped a toggle switch. "Plan Bravo is active."
* * *
"You have a call, Miss Lincoln. It appears to be a young gentleman."
The AI had to repeat it twice before Victoria raised her head, still numb from her encounter with the intruder.
"Oh my god!" she gasped. "Oliver!" Had he also received a visit?
"Call connect," she said, scrambling toward the vidphone. The screen flickered to life and she peered intently at the face looking back at her. To her relief, it wasn't Oliver. To her horror, it was Tony Colombini.
His face looked like hamburger.
"Vic?" he mumbled. "Are you—"
"Tony! What happened?" She was sure she already knew.
"Someb-body…"
"Oh, Jesus, Tony!" Her tears threatened again. "How bad are you hurt?"
"I-I dunno. I think some —" He winced. "—some ribs are busted. I c-can't — see too well."
Victoria saw blood dripping from his chin.
"Stay where you are, Tony. I'm coming down. But first I'm calling you an ambulance."
"No! D-don't. They said — they …"
"How many were there, Tony?"
"Two. Least, that's all I saw. I don't — don't know wh-who the hell they w-were."
"They were KK, Tony. One came here, too."
His one open eye reflected his concern. "Christ, Vic! Did he …"
"No, he just tried to scare me. He succeeded, too."
"Are you sure? That he was KK?"
"Yes. He had the lapel pin."
Tony closed his good eye. "Oh, god!" he moaned. "Listen, Vic, no ambulance. Promise me."
"Why not?"
He tried to laugh, but it came out as a choking sound.
"Because they said so."
Victoria decided this argument could wait.
"Okay, no ambulance. But I'm coming down. See you in two minutes."
She disconnected before he could reply. Steeling herself to move, she headed for the door. Tony lived in the same building, two floors below. Perhaps together they could decide what to do next.
Victoria hurried into the corridor outside her apartment and headed for the anti-grav lift thirty feet away. She would take care of Tony, and then …
What? Continue with her story? Risk a Sirian prison, or worse? How important was all this to her personally? Did she really have what it took to be a hard-nosed journalist? Was it worth her life? Maybe Oliver was right; even if she broke the story on Terra, what would it change? How many lives could she save?
She reached the lift and reached for the Down button, debating whether to call Oliver and accept his invitation to take her home. She would have to decide by morning, before he left New Birmingham.
The anti-grav opened and Victoria stepped inside. The floor shimmered blue, translucent, giving her a view of the elevator well that stretched downward to eternity.
"You are on floor one-thirty-four," the AI said casually, as if all were right in the universe. "Which floor is your destination?"
"Floor one thirty-two," Victoria said.
"Thank you."
The door materialized and Victoria waited. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She'd get through this. She'd ask Tony to go home as well. The New York office would reassign them. Or not — it didn't matter. After tonight, she didn't care if she never …
The lights went out. Victoria opened her eyes. The lift hadn't moved. She opened her mouth to repeat the destination …
The shimmering blue floor sparked once — and vanished. Victoria Lincoln, twenty-eight, had time for a long, drawn-out scream as she plunged one hundred thirty-four floors to her death.
Chapter 6
Saturday, 30 May, 0195 (PCC) — New Birmingham, Missibama, Sirius 1
Oliver was up early for his flight back to New Angeles. As he finished packing the only bag he'd brought with him, room service arrived with breakfast — eggs, bacon, and biscuits with gravy. A country breakfast, Confederate style.
With a glance at his watch, he sat down to eat.
Sleeping had been difficult last night. Victoria's assertions about the Sirian intention to invade the Vega system, coupled with concern for her safety, had made him restless. It did make sense, when he thought about it. Brandon's account of Vega executing Sirians, Baker's statement about expanding the Confederate fighter fleet — in the light of Victoria's information, it all seemed to fit.
He had another four days on the planet. Before he left, perhaps he could persuade his sister to leave with him. He'd give it his best shot.
"You have a call, Mr. Lincoln," the hotel AI informed him. "It appears to be a subspace call, from Oliver Lincoln II."
Oliver sat upright in surprise. His dad? What the hell?
Pushing his food away, Oliver walked over to the holoview
er and sat down in front of it. For some reason his heartbeat intensified.
"Call connect," he said.
The holo image appeared instantly, flickered, and steadied. His father's face looked out at him. Oliver Lincoln II was fifty, an inch taller than the son, and about the same weight. The two men looked very much alike, though the father had lost a lot more hair. To keep them straight, Oliver's mother had taken to calling them Oliver Two and Oliver Three.
"Dad?" Oliver instantly noticed the red in his dad's eyes, the puffiness, the sleepless look. Lights were on behind him; he was calling from his bedroom. "What's up? What time is it there?"
"I dunno," Lincoln replied. "Four-thirty, I think."
"In the morning?" Oliver felt a jolt of dread. Had something happened to his mother?
"Glad I caught you," Lincoln said in a hoarse voice. "I tried the Marlow plantation and they gave me this number."
"What is it, Dad? What's going on?"
The older man cleared his throat, as if with effort. He didn't answer for several seconds.
"We, uh — we got a call a little while ago. From Tony Colombini."
Oliver frowned. The name was familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"Who's that?"
"He works with Victoria. Her holocam guy."
"Okay, I remember …" His heart froze, the blood drained out of his face. "Oh, Jesus, Dad! What's happened?"
"Son… Victoria —" His dad's voice cracked. He lowered his face into his hands. Oliver didn't need to hear the rest. It was easy enough to guess. But the elder Lincoln regained control and looked up again. "Son, Victoria is dead."
It took Oliver an hour to get moving. The shock was overwhelming, but the expected reaction didn't set in. That would come later. At the moment, he had too many things to do.
He located Tony Colombini without too much trouble. The young man peered fearfully through the force field with his one good eye. They'd met once back on Terra, and Tony recognized him. He released the door control and Oliver stepped inside the suite.
Tony's face was a mess, the left side badly swollen, the skin black and purple. He could barely speak through broken lips, and teeth seemed to be missing.
"Have you seen a doctor?" Oliver asked, wincing at the sight.
Tony shook his head. He was trembling, as if weak with fatigue. "God!" he mumbled. "This is my worst fucking nightmare!" He pronounced it "nightbare".
Oliver took him by the arm and guided him to a couch, then sat down facing him.
"My dad called," he said. "He said you looked like somebody had beaten you up. What happened?"
Tony stared at him in silence for a moment, then shook his head.
"I can't talk about it," he mumbled. "Not here."
"Was it the K —"
"Don't say it! Don't say anything! I don't trust this place."
Oliver nodded slowly. "Is there someplace we can talk?"
"I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe when we get back to Terra."
"You're going back to Terra?"
"Damn right I am! Fuck this job! I don't need this."
Oliver had a million questions to ask. He picked one that Tony might consider safe to answer.
"How did you find out? About — about Victoria?"
"Building management. They knew we worked together. They told the police. Police came to see me."
"Did the police see your face?"
Tony nodded. "I told them I fell in the shower."
"And they believed you?" Oliver was incredulous.
"They pretended to. That was enough."
"And you called my dad?"
"Yes. I knew you were in town, but I didn't know where. I'm really sorry about your sister. How are you doing?"
Oliver shrugged, staring at his hands. "It hasn't sunk in yet."
Tony glanced around the room, as if searching for invisible bugs. Then, breaking his own rule of silence:
"It wasn't an accident, Oliver."
Oliver nodded. "I know."
* * *
"How old was your sister?"
The police captain sat back in an old fashioned swivel chair with his legs crossed and his fingers interlocked behind his head. He was a big man, firm and fit, with greying hair cut military style. His name was Pitts.
"She was twenty‑eight."
"What was she doing on Sirius?"
Oliver stirred in irritation.
"She was a journalist with the biggest holonews network on Terra. Captain, don't you already know all this? I thought your department was investigating her death."
Pitts watched him through unblinking eyes. Pokerfaced, his thoughts impossible to read.
"We're investigating the accident," he said evenly. "To investigate her 'death' would suggest that something illegal happened."
Oliver just looked at him.
"Is that what you think?" Pitts pressed. "That something illegal happened?"
"I don't know. Captain, I was notified that my sister died in an accident. It's quite a shock. I need to find out what happened. Anything you can tell me would help a lot."
Pitts didn't blink.
"The accident report says the anti‑grav lift failed. She fell. Goddamned shame, but that's all there is to it."
He waited for Oliver's response, long seconds passing in silence.
"Do anti‑grav lifts fail very often on Sirius?" Oliver asked.
"Why? You want to sue the manufacturer?"
"Should I? Would I have a case?"
"I'm not a lawyer."
"I've ridden anti‑grav lifts all my life," Oliver said. "I've never heard of one failing. Have you?"
"Don't remember. Don't mean much one way or another, though. Orbital shuttles don't crash very often, either, but it does happen."
Oliver didn't know if the man was stonewalling him, but there clearly wasn't much sympathy in his attitude. Frustrated, he took a chance.
"Captain, is your department connected with the KK?"
Pitts's eyes narrowed further. "Why do you ask?"
"It's an honest question."
"No, we're not." The eyes had turned colder.
"My sister was visited by the KK just a few minutes before she died."
"So?"
"That's quite a coincidence, don't you think?"
"The question in my mind is, what did your sister do to warrant a visit from the KK? They don't usually just drop in for coffee."
"Victoria was a journalist. She probably found out something she shouldn't have."
"Like what?"
"How should I know?"
"So you think the KK killed your sister?" The eyes hadn't changed, but the voice had dropped an octave or two.
Oliver held up both hands.
"I'm not accusing anyone of anything. But it seems really odd that she would plunge to her death five minutes after the KK left her apartment."
"You're on a goose chase, boy." Pitts leaned forward. "Son, I'm sorry about your sister. But I was you, I wouldn't go around repeating anything you've told me. Nobody fucks with the KK. They're a branch off the SE. You heard of them?"
Oliver shook his head.
"Sirian Elite Guards. Military. KK is the civilian version. We don't always approve of their methods, but they are necessary. You'd do well to forget about 'em. If your sister crossed them, then she was doing somethin' illegal, pure and simple."
"I don't believe that for a second!" Oliver retorted.
"Believe it or don't, I don't care. But you're still alive. Smart thing for you to do is, collect your sister's body, pick up a few souvenirs, and catch the first starship back where you came from. Now, I'm not gonna report your allegations to the KK —"
"They weren't allegations!"
"— even though I'm supposed to. But if you don't keep this to yourself, I won't be able to help you. Nobody will."
It was the closest thing to a threat Oliver had heard since he arrived. He stared at the officer in dismay, but Pitts didn't budge or change expression. Finall
y Oliver got to his feet and left without another word.
* * *
Brandon Marlow arrived just after noon. Oliver was back in his suite, staring out the window with a glass of scotch in his hand, trying to sort things out. He'd extended his reservation for another two days.
"God damn, Ollie," Brandon said as Oliver let him in, "I am so fucking sorry!"
Oliver nodded, biting his lip. Brandon embraced him fraternally and held him for nearly a minute.
"So fucking sorry!" he repeated.
"Thanks for coming," Oliver said as they took seats across from each other.
"Hey, the minute I heard what your dad had to say, I called the shuttleport and booked a flight. Nobody should have to go through this alone."
Oliver brought him up to date on what he knew, what Tony had told him.
"Brandon, have you ever heard of an anti-grav lift failing like that? I never have, not in my entire life."
Brandon shook his head. "I can't remember a case. What are you thinking?"
Oliver shrugged. "Well, I suppose it could happen, but we're talking force field technology. It isn't something that's going to fail just because a bearing wears out or a cable fractures. Those things have multiple redundancies. It seems awfully goddamned strange."
"You don't think it was an accident?"
"Like I said, it might be. But what are the odds?"
"I don't know." Brandon appeared uncomfortable. "What are you gonna do now?"
"I have to claim the body and make arrangements to get her home, and I have to collect her personal effects. I guess I won't be coming back to your place. I left some luggage there —"
"I'll ship it. Don't worry about a thing."
Oliver nodded his thanks.
"Tascha will be disappointed," Brandon added.
"What?"
"She really likes you." Brandon smiled. "She said you treated her like a real lady."
Oliver didn't know what to say to that. Tascha. A half-breed, quarter-breed — whatever the hell she was — serf girl, trapped on a world where she was valued only for her body. Treated her like a lady? He'd fucked her like a whore. What the hell had he been thinking?
He shook his head to clear his thoughts.
"Tell her she is a real lady. I'm sorry I won't see her again."
"I'll tell her."
* * *
Victoria had been taken to New Birmingham Mortality Repository, an antiseptic name for the city morgue. Brandon accompanied Oliver to claim the body. The office was underground, as depressing as one might expect. The clerk was a pale, humorless individual who reminded Oliver of a mole.
