Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel

by K. R. Richardson

  “I know the risks.”

  “Yours, maybe, but this is not just your potential failure. I cannot afford to send yet another body to the incinerator.” She turned aside and bent over the eyepiece on the office table, illuminated by a single harsh light. “I knew you were lying to me. Pride or fear, which is it?”

  “Inexperience,” he said.

  All the display screens in the gloomy office flickered in an ever-changing array of information, test results, reference photos, in-process responses, autopsy diagrams, dossier files, messages, mobile uploads . . .

  “You’re blaming this on a lack of instructions? You didn’t wait long enough for instruction and calibration and you didn’t ask for any. You can do all of this, self-taught”—Andreus waved one hand at the screens—“which is more than I thought the interface was even capable of, but you wouldn’t admit you didn’t know how to clean the ocular. And you palmed Starna off with routine work so you could hide this from me.”

  “From him—I apparently have no secrets from you, Doctor.”

  “Damned right you don’t. What I know about you—”

  “Is no worse than what I know about you,” Dillal finished as the displays shifted to a fast flicker of images more graphic and horrifying than what lay in the morgue next door: field hospital hillocks of roughly amputated limbs and ruined organs, patients with bodies desperately reconstructed in ways far removed from nature, prison camps and small settlements in rubble and flames, mass graves . . .

  Andreus watched the screens for a moment, her face hard. “A field surgeon doesn’t always have a choice about who lives and who dies.”

  He gave her a hard smile. “Not always.” The screens went black, then flickered, one by one, back to their busy scan of case notes and message pings. Two red pips flashed on the message queue as the doctor turned her back.

  Andreus finished with the eyepiece and carried it to him, glaring. “Do you want to prove how clever you are and put this back in, or do you concede that I might know what I’m doing?”

  The door chime issued a lock override warning. The name “Ference Pritchet” appeared on the central display and the door swung inward, letting the brighter light from the corridor into the room. Dillal and Andreus both looked toward it.

  The man on the other side of the opening ducked a little as he entered, passing his hand over the light controls as he did and bringing the illumination up.

  Andreus turned back and spread her left hand across Dillal’s face to press her fingers against the prosthetic frame. She snapped the ocular into it with a sharp twist. Pritchet sucked his breath through his perfect, white teeth, wincing in disgust, and turned his face aside.

  Andreus looked up as she took a step back from Dillal. “Pritchet,” she said, offering a grudging nod.

  Dillal shook himself and ran his fingers over the edge of the ocular frame as he turned to face GISA’s Angra Dastrelas Regional Director.

  Pritchet dwarfed the CIFO in any dimension, a head-and-a-half taller, more than twice as wide across the shoulders, and built like a statue of an athlete meant to be seen from a distance. His lapis blue hair fell over tawny eyes in a carefully styled cowlick. At sixty-two, was well aware of the powerful image he projected and he salvaged his moment of weakness by planting himself in the center of the small room. A checkerboard of ID crystals was barely visible below the crisp edge of his left shirt cuff as he crossed his arms.

  “Dr. Andreus. Come to check on our . . . ?”

  “Experiment?” she offered. She shifted her gaze to Dillal who turned his head to watch her. “He’s better than I expected at this stage. In fact, he’s quite a piece of work.”

  Pritchet kept his focus on her. “Excellent.” His voice held no real enthusiasm. Then he fell silent.

  Andreus picked up her kit, leaving the claw-like instrument on Dillal’s desk, and exited without further comment.

  Pritchet pivoted slightly to face the inspector. He studied the smaller man for a few seconds without obvious reaction this time. “What is your progress?”

  Dillal raised his eyes, not his head. The slight clicking of his prosthesis drew a shudder from Pritchet. “Fair.”

  Pritchet raised his eyebrows. “Fair? Not solved?”

  “It will be.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. It hasn’t been even forty-eight hours yet.”

  Pritchet raised his chin a little and grunted. “You have a week, barring unforeseen circumstances, and the clock is already ticking. Quick and prosecutable results are the object of this project. Don’t disappoint me,” he said and turned away, leaving Dillal alone in the office. The lights sank back to their preset gloom.

  The inspector turned back to the display screens and opened the message queue. The red priority pips were both from Starna within the past hour. There was no information attached, just a request for attention. Dillal sent a ping back and the tech appeared in his open doorway within five minutes.

  Starna stood just outside, still wearing eye shields, his hands fisted in his coat pockets. “Sir?”

  “Come in and close the door.”

  Starna entered and closed the door like he was sealing his own doom. He seemed to cringe, waiting for Dillal to speak.

  Dillal outwaited him.

  Starna drew his hands from his pockets and rubbed one thumb hard into the palm of his other hand. He clenched them together tightly enough to make the muscles in his shoulders and neck tense. “I found a latent. It’s a partial—probably won’t get anything from the database on it—but it has a trace. I held it, as you said, but . . . should I run it?”

  “Bring it to me.”

  Starna started to turn, then spun back. “Sir . . . it’s not Dreihleen.”

  Dillal tilted his head slightly. “And you know this without running complete analysis?”

  “Genetic biochem was going to be my specialty, once.” He pulled off the shields and met Dillal’s gaze for the first time since he walked into the office. “The relevant markers were obvious. It’s Ohba.”

  Dillal glanced aside, as if distracted by something Starna couldn’t see. “Bring it to me.”

  Starna squeezed the eye shields until they cracked. “You knew.”

  “I need confirmation,” Dillal said, returning his gaze to the tech. “Without logging into the system that is open to anyone who wishes to look.”

  “You think someone . . . is spying?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Starna frowned, dropping his eyes. “Director Pritchet’s never come down here, before.”

  “I imagine not.”

  “The lab’s almost empty. Everybody’s heading home.”

  “And you?”

  Starna hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest as his head went down a few degrees. “No.”

  Dillal took half a step back, studying the man in front of him. Starna didn’t look up.

  “I’ll come into the lab in a few minutes.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Day 2: Evening

  Santos had been scared, angry, and drunk, but that didn’t make it easier to shake off what he’d said. It rang with uncomfortable truth. That only means he believes it. He’s not that good a liar and he held something back. The whole conversation worried Matheson long after Santos had slipped into incoherent muttering. He’d given up trying to get anything more, and had started to leave, but Christa had blocked him at the door. She’d held her silence till then, but her expression was less hard, if no less fierce while she studied Matheson. Then she’d picked up the boots Santos had worn on duty and held them out.

  “You are being his friend?” Her voice was slow and dark.

  Matheson had taken the boots with care and put them into a thin film bag from his pocket. “I’m trying. It would be easier if he’d told me everything—and told me sooner. Do you know what he didn’t say?”

  She’d shaken her head. “Nor.”

  That was all she’d offered and then locked
the door behind him as he left.

  Now he hurried back toward the office, frustrated, angry, and anxious. If what Santos believed were true, nothing he or Dillal did would matter, and that wasn’t acceptable—he’d agreed to be a bloodhound, not a catspaw.

  Matheson didn’t run this time, but he wanted to. Once he reached the GISA building, he took the long way to ForTech to avoid S-Office. His mobile pinged with database search results that only made him more tense.

  As Matheson entered the lab, a raw-boned man wearing a lab coat passed roughly by, barely mumbling an apology on his way out the door. There wasn’t a med/legal or technician left in the place. He checked his mobile, but, no, he hadn’t lost track of time—it wasn’t much later than he’d thought and he wasn’t sure why the place was abandoned so early in the shift. There was only one figure far to the rear of the room and even at a distance, Matheson recognized Dillal.

  The inspector was at one of the dissecting stations, staring down into a sample dish, with his right arm crossed over his chest to support his left elbow. His left index finger was stretched against his stubbled temple, while his right eyelid drooped sleepily. The cybernetic eye, however, was wide open. Matheson kept his distance.

  In a minute, Dillal closed his eyes and shook his head, stepping back from the work bench. “What is it, Matheson?” He sounded tired.

  “I talked to Santos. He admitted to entering the jasso earlier—he did have a key—but he said he didn’t go any farther than the tiles. I also got his damned boots—”

  Dillal pointed to the side. “Leave them there. I’ll have Starna deal with them tomorrow.”

  Matheson put the bagged footwear on the table Dillal had indicated, then walked toward the inspector, saying, “There’s something else.”

  Dillal nodded absently, turning and opening his eyes—the natural one was bloodshot and even the prosthetic seemed dull. “Yes. I saw your query on Dohan.”

  “There is an unpleasant connection, but that’s not the only thing that causes me concern.”

  “Concern?” Dillal asked. Then he blinked a while at Matheson, frowning, and cocked his head. “What particular venom has dripped into your ears?”

  Matheson felt he was about to step into the abyss. “It’s about you and this project . . .”

  “Ah. Then this is not a discussion for the lab,” the inspector said, and turned to walk out of the room. He stopped and waited for Matheson to follow him. “How were you injured?” he asked.

  “What?” Matheson replied, jarred into movement by the change of topic.

  Dillal rubbed a finger along the bridge of his own nose. “Injury. How.”

  Matheson’s face felt stiff as he answered, “Accident. I slipped.”

  The inspector growled and walked out. He stood impatiently, then locked the lab door behind them with a swipe of his wrist across the sensor, and a keyed command. “Don’t lie to me. If you prefer not to reveal a personal detail, say so, but if you force me to pick through every word you speak, you’re of no use to me.”

  “Use is exactly the question raised,” Matheson said. He didn’t want to discuss the origin of his scraped face, whether or not it was relevant.

  Dillal waited a moment, then shrugged and turned away. He led Matheson into his office and collapsed into a chair beside the array of busy information screens. He covered his eyes with his hands. “Tell me,” he said. “I have no time to drag it out of you.”

  “I don’t like to be maneuvered.”

  “I know. Explain how that’s relevant.”

  “Santos thinks you’re a dupe. Look: He admitted to the protection scheme and breaking away from me to make the pick up—you were right on that—and I’m convinced that he had no part in the robbery or the murders. But he was resistant to speaking and he was upset, until I said you were the IOC—then he got scared.”

  Dillal lowered his hands and looked at Matheson, dusty light through the high, filthy window falling in stripes across his face and illuminating his red hair. “Of me?”

  “Of getting spaced. He doesn’t believe that you’ll be allowed to solve the case—or even that you can—but that the office of CIFO is a political blind to make sure certain cases get closed as the corporation sees fit. He believes you—and by extension I—are nothing but pawns to Corporation House.”

  “And you believe that also?”

  “I don’t want to, but he’s not a great liar and he’s convinced to the point of panic that if no one . . . politically expedient is arrested quickly enough, he’ll be framed for it and shoved out the figurative air lock. I said I’d see this through, but I will not be party to that.”

  The inspector didn’t raise his voice. “Nor would I. We both know he’s not involved. Why should I do such a thing?”

  “Because you’d be given no choice.”

  The inspector made a harsh noise in his throat. “Trash can’t be brought lower.”

  “What?”

  “Santos thinks my ambition can be used against me. That having given me this position, Pritchet and Corporation House can manipulate me to their own ends. But my ambition rises from vacancy—there’s nothing to take away, nothing to threaten me with. And they hardly know you exist, as yet. It’s true that if a solution doesn’t appear in a timely manner—as it seems it will not—the case may become a political talking point at Corporation House. But before that pressure is brought to bear, we have a more immediate problem.”

  Matheson scowled at the inspector’s quicksilver change of topic. “Sir?”

  “Forgive me,” Dillal said, scrubbing his hands over his face and back into what remained of his hair. “I may be jumping at shadows. Starna has turned up some disturbing results and Director Pritchet is observing our progress. My progress. He can’t observe it in this room, however.”

  “What did this tech find?”

  “Ohba DNA.”

  A chill coiled in Matheson’s guts. “In the scene materials?”

  “On one of the bullets—no other sign on scene so far—but if that one fact becomes known, it will play to the corporation’s desire to call this an ethnic crime.”

  “Does this change—”

  “No.” Dillal leaned forward in his seat and stared into Matheson’s face. “I stand by our original scenario, but it does mean our immediate goal is not so much solving the crime, as finding the suspects—or compelling evidence that points to them—before Pritchet and Corporation House shorten our leash. That will require confidence—yours in me, mine in you—and the security of this room. We won’t have the further luxury of second guessing.” He offered a fast-flickering smile. “I promise you I won’t be pushed to an expedient solution, though the road to the right one may be unpleasant. Now, what else do you have to go forward with?”

  Matheson took a slow breath, catching up before he spoke. “I may have found the connection between Robesh and Leran—they’re both children of women who worked for Dohan Sewing. It’s likely they played together at the factory as children and would have known each other at school.”

  “Such as it is for Dreihleen.”

  Matheson frowned, but let the inspector’s comment pass, for now.

  “My database query also returned a registered contract between Dohan Sewing and the Julian Company. So that confirms the origin of the clothes Robesh was wearing when she died. Speculation is that Dohan was in the Paz da Sorte to show off. Taking the model for his new line along would fit with that, but it’s unconfirmed and we don’t know if Robesh worked for him or for Julian.”

  The inspector’s ocular clicked and he narrowed his eyes. “Why does this Julian business continue to distract you?”

  “If the company is involved, that would . . . complicate the issue. For me.”

  Dillal was silent a moment before he spoke quietly. “Discard your personal demons. We must proceed quickly and the company’s involvement is unlikely to have any weight but as a drag on your attention.”

  Matheson was not entirely reassured, but
he replied, “Yes, sir.”

  “What else have you turned up?”

  “Not much. One possible confidential informant, plus a woman I haven’t been able to interview properly yet, and an unaffiliated kid who said Robesh and Leran weren’t friends. My feeling is they were lovers and had a falling out, but that’s also unconfirmed. I could go after the boy—I didn’t get his name and he slipped off into the tunnels.”

  “Find a definite suspect or lead before chasing unaffs into the Tomb. The Dreihleen mourning ritual may be a problem, however.”

  “In what way?” Matheson asked, warily.

  “The families may isolate themselves, but the tradition is rather old-fashioned and the festival also complicates the situation—people who must work to eat can’t afford to hide behind blackened doors.”

  “I haven’t had any slammed in my face yet.”

  “You will. But don’t let it stop you—there is always the kitchen gate and your ID pass code. Delicacy must be balanced against our need to move quickly.”

  “It seems a little disrespectful.”

  “That is a line you’ll have to walk for yourself.” The inspector glanced back to his displays and stared at them as if even he didn’t know where to start. “We have a race we must win and there are many obstacles.”

  Matheson let himself out of the office, disturbed by the inspector’s distraction and obvious exhaustion. Confidence . . . I’ll have to fake it. If this went to hell, he was the least of the people who’d be on scrap heap, but without the inspector, his own position was as tenuous as a rowboat’s in a gale.

  The Quay was getting busy with the upcoming night’s festivities. Within hours, it would be even denser in the Dreihleat where the “more authentic” celebrations still played to the locals and tempted the hardcore culture mavens into its clogged streets. Not to mention attracting those who thought a night slumming was more thrilling than mixing with the pack of well-washed and well-heeled.