Orbital Burn

by K. A. Bedford

  “Guarding?”

  “The victim’s family is in there, ma’am.” He glared at Lou, saying this.

  She stood, looked at the doors as the cop opened them, and adjusted her clothes, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.

  The packed chamber reminded her of images she’d seen of old-fashioned chapels, with rows of pews. These pews were full of well-dressed people of all ages, wearing a lot of black. For a moment Lou felt like she’d walked into a funeral service by mistake. Except she knew that these were the Tourignons, and there was no casket wreathed in flowers. Many of these people had come just to see Giselle’s killer tried and found guilty under the Orbital’s strict law. Some turned as she came in, gave her a once-over with sneering, appraising eyes, then looked back towards the front, at the altar. She had been dismissed. They looked like the kind of crowd who would bring a good supply of rocks to a public stoning.

  The black granite altar was on a dais at the far end of the room, with the witness dock near the altar. There was a narrow aisle between the pews, down the center. Behind the altar was a small, plain Crucifix of black wood. The rest of the place was a severe white. Lightbars stripped across the ceiling. Everything looked cold and sterile.

  Lou tried to settle her nerves. “Hoo boy…” She fidgeted. The cop nodded to her to get in there. He followed closely behind.

  The chamber smelled of old wood varnish and a mix of expensive colognes. Maybe the smell of anxiety, too, from years of fear pheromones flying about. Lou caught herself holding her breath, reflexively. Unknown smells held many terrors.

  The cop showed her to a bench at the chamber’s rear where she would wait until called.

  A man at the front suddenly bolted up from his seat. He stood there, looking across the room, over all those expensively coifed heads, at her.

  Whispers broke out. Heads turned. The man was chunky-looking, she saw, middle-aged, broad of face with forbidding dark eyes like bleak pits. Graying hair brushed straight back from his lined forehead. He had olive skin, pale with emotion. He scowled at her, a gargoyle on the attack.

  “You!” he shouted, working his way to the aisle, bellowing curses in unmistakable gutter Martian French. “Murderer! Murderer!” His wives tried to hold him back, protesting and hissing at him to sit down. Etienne Tourignon pushed to the aisle.

  Lou began to panic, looking around for her escort, thinking, Oh God, here it comes.

  The cop pushed her into her seat, saying, “Excuse me, ma’am.” He drew his sidearm and levelled it at Tourignon. “You will resume your seat or face contempt of court charges, sir.” Lou saw the cop toggle the gun’s autolock; in the tense moment of silence she heard the whirr of micro-gyros in the weapon’s grip. The guard’s command was very loud; it packed authority.

  Etienne Tourignon, within a meter of the cop’s gun, stopped and stared, outraged. He stood in the aisle, breathing hard, wide nostrils flaring. His tink-altered face looked like hell, like it might be time for a refresher. There were dark bags under his eyes and deep creases in his weathered skin. The whites of his eyes were dull and bloodshot, perhaps from wondering how he came to lose a nephew and a granddaughter in the past few weeks. For a long moment he glared at Lou, almost within arm’s reach. She tried to glare back. He looked like a volcano wanting to explode. Shuddering, simmering. She could hear his breathing.

  “You … you killed my Giselle. My granddaughter. You killed her in cold blood. I…” Tourignon was lost for words. He looked around, stared at the ceiling, as if asking for divine guidance and on the edge of tears. At length he spewed a torrent of French abuse at her, his bellowing voice ringing in the chamber’s close confines. Nobody else said a word.

  The cop took a step towards Tourignon. “Resume your seat — now!”

  Lou sat, feeling minute, full of guilt. Tourignon was right. She didn’t want to cry her guts out over it, but she regretted the incident. She’d never killed anyone before, and even went out of her way to avoid killing bugs and spiders. But what else was she meant to do when confronted with Giselle and her two performing thugs? She’d been told before that Tourignon had sent armed soldiers to get her, that she was sniffing too close to some big thing he was cooking up. Was she meant to cave in and go along — and wind up shoved out of an airlock, missing her fingers and toes? The whole thing was murky. The family had a right to their grief. She was sorry. But…

  Meanwhile, Tourignon stayed there, staring down at her, and she could feel his hot malice, his passion for revenge. The cop might have stopped him spewing abuse at her, but Tourignon wasn’t done with her yet.

  The longer he stood there, though, daring the cop to bust him on contempt, the more she thought about things. At length, feeling giddy and crazy, she got up, and stepped closer to Etienne. The cop tried to stand between her and Tourignon; she stepped to one side, facing him directly, if only for a moment, and said to the old man, “Why did you want the kid? Who told you where he’d be the night you sent Michel and Marcel?” She was standing there, close enough to touch him, to smell his boozy breath, to feel the heat off his skin. She felt a kind of exhilaration, a daring. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. The courage of the doomed, she figured, staring at him, standing up to those pitiless eyes. “What’s so special about the kid, Etienne? Huh? Why him? And where is he now?”

  Tourignon stared at her, surprised, his balloon burst. He hadn’t been expecting Lou to show some spine. Lou figured he wasn’t surprised all that often. His hostility towards her didn’t ease, but he did, she thought, regard her with more care now. Maybe there was more to Lou than the old guy thought. Maybe more than even she thought. Pity she’d never get to use any of it again.

  One of Tourignon’s two wives appeared at her husband’s side to take him back, apologizing with charming manners to the cop. Lou thought back to her early inquiries: this was Elyse, the young bewitching one, a petite brunette with a slim neck and creamy-gold skin. She had draped herself in black silk, simple yet flattering, as appropriate at a funeral as at a cocktail party. Elyse’s perfume, too, was cool and sublime. Lou imagined men inhaling it in swooning gulps, even if told the stuff contained fatal nerve-agents, just for the rapture of such an exquisite doom.

  Elyse took his arm and whispered something to him. Her smile made Lou think of female spiders, ready to devour their mates. Etienne, startled, turned to her. Lou remembered this man was over one hundred years old; she could see it in him now, despite his more youthful appearance, in the way he moved and reacted to Elyse. He was tired from his verbal assault on Lou. He shot her one last nasty look, then let Elyse walk him back to his seat.

  Lou yelled, as loudly as she could, “What about the kid? Who tipped you about his location that night? Why did your nephews kidnap a sick little kid? Why’d they do that, Etienne? Huh? What are you lot up to?” What are they going to do? Lock me up the rest of my life? She almost laughed, thinking about that.

  Her escort cop stowed his weapon and turned on her. His face was forbidding. “You will not talk to a member of the deceased’s family like that, unless you want a contempt charge yourself.” Lou subsided, but she saw the way some of the family reacted to what she said, as if she’d said something rude at a genteel party, or spoiled a wicked surprise.

  Elyse kept Tourignon on course. He stopped, and resisted her gentle guidance. Turning, he looked back at Lou, an evaluative stare in his eyes, two dark holes in the fabric of the world. The old man worked his jaw, thinking hard.

  Behind her, the chamber doors opened. A man in a stylish white suit entered. He seemed backlit, the way his suit and skin shone. He stood a moment, adjusting his clothes, gaining his composure. He strode to Lou. She watched him, not sure whether to smile or not. Otaru. It was all in the way he strode towards her. His movements were minimal, as if choreographed and rehearsed. Looking at his head, she saw only that familiar disturbing optical effect, a f
lickering blur, that looked like a head of dark hair from one angle, but looked like baldness from another. And, like the last Otaru guy, this man was beautiful to look at, too. A heartbreaker. Such looks were not natural.

  “Ms. Meagher,” the man said, with a slight nod of the head. “Otaru at your service.”

  She managed to control herself. It was difficult. It also occurred to her that it was that last Otaru guy, that night in the strange hotel room, who told her that Tourignon’s personal troops were in town and looking to slice her up for pizza topping. She twisted her mouth, worried all over again, but about different things now. “Why am I not happy to see you?” she asked, full of unfocused dread, looking at him sideways.

  “I am a node of Otaru. I’ve come to help. Please, we must talk.”

  Lou did notice that Otaru’s arrival had set up a stir among the Tourignons. She heard lots of intense French yatter, much of which sounded obscene and angry.

  They sat on the defendant’s bench at the rear, next to the doors. Otaru sat like an origami figure, all crisp angles, smooth straight lines, and featureless surfaces. There were no blemishes on his skin, no bags under his eyes, no shaving glitches. And, she noticed, he was human, not a disposable. He said, “I am your defender, Ms. Meagher.” Yet he did not quite look at her.

  “I didn’t know I was entitled to a defender. I didn’t even know there was a defence case worth making. The prosecution said the evidence against me…” She shrugged, sighing, and managed a weak smile.

  He said, “There is a way out. Trust me.” He flashed a small, cryptic smile.

  A robed and hooded figure in midnight blue entered through a small door behind the altar, accompanied by a young male officer dressed in what looked like white novice robes. As the blue-robed judge approached the altar, the novice announced, “In the Name of Our Lord, please rise for Her Wisdom, Justice Nine, of Akane.” Everyone stood. Lou looked around, and realized she should stand, too. Embarrassed, she got up, tried to look sincere, and wondered about “Nine” as a name for a judge.

  The judge knelt before the Crucifix, then turned to stand at the altar. The novice removed the judge’s hood and stood to one side, arms behind his back.

  Justice Nine was an old female disposable.

  Lou blinked, shocked, her mouth hanging open. A disposable judge? She stared. The lights overhead cast a bland illumination. There were no shadows. Lou could see the Seal of the Office of the Holy Judiciate on the judge’s temple.

  Justice Nine recited the pre-hearing ceremonial preamble in a quiet voice. Lou couldn’t quite hear all of it, and what she could hear made no sense. There was some prayer involved: she saw the gathered crowd following along, reciting and repeating at particular times, but she didn’t recognize the language. Otaru leaned across and whispered, “It is New Testament Greek, Ms. Meagher, the official language for legal proceedings here.” Which meant nothing to Lou, but it sounded Biblical.

  The formalities over, Justice Nine said, looking at notes before her, “This proceeding is Case Number five-one-five-six slash two-dash-four slash City of Akane vs. Louise Meagher, yes? I haven’t walked into the wrong chambers, just for once? That’s what I have here, anyway, so that’s what we’re doing. Hmm. Murder and wrongful death — and arms dealing, too! Ms. Meagher — is that you at the back? You’ve been a busy lady in the brief time you’ve been with us. Few other tourists make such an impression in such short order. Now, if you’d kindly get to your feet and make your way to the witness box, we can move things along.”

  Lou got up. Otaru whispered to her, “Trust me,” which was of no help. She made her way up the aisle, accompanied by the escort cop. She felt like she was swimming in a canal filled with hungry sharks. Furious Tourignons were on either side. She heard a lot of hissed insults and death threats. Her prison uniform felt tight to the point of suffocation. Lou looked calm by the time she got to the witness box. Inside, however, she wanted to run away from all of those accusing eyes.

  She sat. The novice wanted to know if she would swear on a Bible or if she had some other preference. She sat there, alarmed, mind blank, thinking only about the incense odor on the novice’s robes. “Um, I don’t know. Does it matter?” The novice scowled and presented an ancient leather-bound book with gold-edged pages; the book showed lots of wear and age, with “Holy Bible” embossed in gold into the leather cover. She could smell the leather; the smell made her feel ill. The novice instructed her in placing her hand on the book and made her promise to speak truthfully, not conceal knowledge, and accept whatever judgment might be rendered unto her through God’s justice. Wide-eyed, she felt condemned already. She looked at all the faces in the crowd. She felt their hostile stares.

  Justice Nine, standing at the altar, looked like bad news. “All right. Ms. Meagher, the information I have here says you’re an interesting person. Not only an unlicensed private investigator, but also a victim of accelerated tissue necrosis nanovirus. Is that right?” She looked as though this was a routine, pointless question, to which she did not expect an answer.

  Lou shrugged. “Y-yes, Your Wisdom.” She wanted to tell her to just get the sentencing over with. She tried not to look up; Etienne Tourignon was sitting in the front row, feeling recovered enough to glare once more.

  “This does present special difficulties for the court, Ms. Meagher,” the judge said. “Did you know there is quite a body of common law relating to issues involving crimes committed by individuals with your condition?”

  “Passingly familiar.”

  The judge shifted her footing, worked her display. She was thoughtful. “Ms. Meagher — do you have a defender?”

  Otaru appeared at the altar. Lou didn’t recall seeing him move from the bench at the back. The judge glanced at the man, then at her novice. He shrugged. Lou smiled, but didn’t feel happy. She was glad to know these Otaru guys were as disturbing to others as to her. The Tourignons in the audience made sputtering protests; fingers were pointed. Etienne looked like he might implode from outrage. Lou noticed this, and wondered what the hell was going on between Otaru and the Tourignons.

  Justice Nine blinked a few times. “Who might you be?” she asked.

  “I am a node of the synthetic mind Otaru. I represent Ms. Meagher’s interests. I seek standing in your court.” He handed the judge a small card. She took it, scanned its contents. Nodding, not looking happy, and casting a glance Lou’s way, she said, “Very well, Mr. Otaru. Your standing is granted within the limits of the City’s Conventions. Though I would like to say that it is highly unusual for a defendant facing such a charge to be represented by someone like you.”

  Lou heard that. What did that mean, “someone like you”? She stared at Otaru; he remained oblivious to the fuss his presence was causing.

  Otaru took back his card. He said, “Your Wisdom, may I have permission to make a capitulatory statement, before we move any further along?”

  The judge peered at him through her otherwise expressionless gray eyes. Lou thought about how a disposable could make a very good judge indeed, free from bias, with the full extent of case law, legal opinions, everything, at her instant disposal. It was chilling to think about.

  She said, “Mr. Otaru, you may proceed with your capitulatory statement. It looks like I’ll be finished here early. That’s a nice change of pace, I must say.”

  Otaru executed a small precise bow. He glanced at Lou, nodding. “My client does not dispute the evidence against her.” Otaru went on smoothly, “She does not dispute owning the weapon that fired the fatal shots against Giselle Tourignon that night at eighteen hundred hours. In fact, she readily admits her guilt regarding all charges against her. We do not have an argument with any of these matters, and therefore invite you to bring forth God’s judgment at your earliest convenience.”

  It took all of Lou’s self-control to not say, “Holy crap!” She glared at Otar
u, hoping to incinerate him with her eyes.

  Justice Nine said, “Your client freely admits her guilt?”

  Otaru said, “She would be a fool not to. She signed all the required contractual agreements when she came aboard the Orbital, which include the agreement to abide by the laws and conventions of Akane City, and the very limited rights of the temporary associate Orbital guest. She committed four breeches of the law, and thus expects full punishment.”

  Lou shot to her feet. “You useless bloody prick!”

  Justice Nine flashed her a powerful look. “Ms. Meagher. Since you have a defender, you are required only to answer questions directed towards you. You lack the standing to speak on your own behalf. Outbursts such as this will only bring contempt charges. You really don’t want that.” Lou noticed that, for a disposable, the judge had nasty eyes. She also felt all kinds of hostile rejoinders wanting to scream out of her own mouth, but she managed, barely, to keep quiet and sit still. When she was done, though, she was going to kill that bastard Otaru.

  Otaru stood, saying nothing, waiting.

  The judge said, “Well then. In the absence of a need to prove the case against your client, we can move straight to sentencing, which is where we encounter some tricky questions, due to the defendant’s condition.”

  Otaru nodded. “Quite so. I am here to offer a unique solution.”

  Hearing this, Lou felt her innards turn to water. She tried to catch Otaru’s eye, hoping for a clue; he evaded her.

  Justice Nine said, “The preponderance of case law and High Court opinion throughout human space, since the advent of the accelerated tissue necrosis nanovirus, argues that a so-called “dead” person in the final stages of the tissue necrosis condition, kept in a state of assisted life through the intervention of high-technology instruments, is indistinguishable from a living, conscious individual, at least from the subject’s own perspective. A great many minute machines either directly provide brain function or enable existing tissue to function. Between them they provide the means for the mind to exist, and thus the self and the inherent capacity to make free conscious choices.”