Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel

by K. R. Richardson

  Staying down, Dillal swung around, lashing out at the woman’s legs and catching her just behind the knees. She buckled with a shout of surprise as the other two fell in a heap together. They wouldn’t be off balance for long, but the opening was sufficient for Dillal. He rushed through the doorway and into the poorly lit street outside, his dark and ragged clothes blending him into the night shadows.

  He ran, dodging objects that should have caught or tripped him, and turned sharply into another alley, drawing up short in the sudden glare of half a dozen small flares. He didn’t have time to speak or draw his gun before one of the figures in the dark grabbed him, clamped a hand over his mouth, and yanked him into a darkened doorway while the flares all went out. The man put his mouth to Dillal’s ear and rumbled, “Still, or this one is letting the sandworms have you.”

  The inspector made no protest, dropping his head and going limp in the man’s grip. The man almost dropped him in surprise. Dillal twisted and lunged to escape but his captor reached out and snatched him back, his fingers digging into the inspector’s shoulder hard enough to make him flinch and drop to his knees without a sound. The man in the dark jabbed his thumb into the nerve nexus behind Dillal’s right ear and the inspector crumpled face down, unconscious in the shadowed doorway.

  The SOs rushed past the alley, the woman splitting off to check the narrow passage. She ran the length, more focused on reaching the end than taking good stock of the alley itself, and turned to rejoin the other two on the next block.

  The owners of the pocket flares stepped out of the shadows. One of them searched Dillal, removing the gun, compact shock box, and half-a-dozen e-credit chits. Another hefted him up and over a shoulder like a sack of grain. The group turned to walk the other way, disappearing in shadow and darkness with the whisper of sand blowing over stone.

  Dillal was awake before his escort came to a halt, but made no further move to extricate himself. They made their way through a labyrinth of unlit passages by the light of flares and starshine through broken glass. The man carrying him dropped him without ceremony into a shaft of light. Dillal rolled and landed in a crouch on soft ground, raising the salt-and-sulfur smell of shed insect carapaces, dried dung, and iridescent fish scales.

  They were in one of the rooting sheds in the Sand Trap—an old First Settlement agri-base, abandoned and now reclaimed by the Ohbata gangs that ran less-savory agricultural ventures. He kept his head down—letting the scarf obscure his face, shoulders hunched against an expected blow. He saw the legs of perhaps twenty people—Ohba by the shape and color of them, stocky, with skin and hair in varied and beautiful shades of red, bodies swathed in layers of ragged brown cloth. So long as he remained in his current posture and clothes, he didn’t look much unlike them.

  He swept his gaze side to side as far as he could without raising his head. They were in a large clearing among the rows of plants slumbering in the darkness beneath the opaque vault of the roof, the light a bright spot from above. It was a short distance into the darkness, but a long way to safety. He grew still, gaze focused on the feet of someone who walked to the edge of the light, but stopped short more than a body length away. Male, heavy, elderly, moving at a majestic pace under draperies edged in black. What skin was on view was decorated in designs of tiny, raised dots that shifted from black to white and back as he moved, bringing apparent life to the suggestion of animals and plants on his hands and feet.

  “This is being what?” The elder had a low, round voice that seemed to strike the ground like the reflected peal of a great bell.

  The reply came from behind Dillal in the Ohba’s odd English. “Bong met. These are taking it from three sandworms who are then coming from Bomodai’s warehouse. The auntie is dead.”

  The feet in front of Dillal shifted as the man started to turn away. “The thing has been at killing Auntie Bomodai. It is deserving the same.”

  “Uncle Fahn,” the man behind Dillal objected. “Something . . . is being wrong with its face. The uncle is looking—”

  Uncle Fahn turned back and stomped one foot with great deliberation, kicking up dust. “We are not being concerned that its face is turning you white, Maani. Kill it.”

  Dillal uncoiled and stepped quickly forward. He was within arm’s reach of Uncle Fahn and nearly two body lengths away from the man who’d carried him into the Sand Trap.

  At Fahn’s height, but less than a third his girth, Dillal stood very straight, his head up defiantly. He looked coolly at the old Ohba, who stared back with an expression of growing disgust and horror. The dotted suggestion of a few white birds appeared at the edge of one cheek and vanished again.

  Dillal clasped his hands together at his chest and bowed over them. “This one is at your mercy, Grandfather.” Then he straightened, dropping his hands to his sides.

  Uncle Fahn gestured and the men closing on Dillal from behind stopped and fell back a step or two. He said nothing more for a long moment, glaring at the man in front of him, unable to settle his expression. He reached out and grabbed Dillal’s jaw, tilting the younger man’s face with a rough twist of his decorated hand. He glared at the golden orbit of the inspector’s mechanical eye and the unnatural shape of his skull. “What has the corpse walking been doing? It is not being content with killing our son, but is making itself newly repulsive. It is turning now to killing the rest of us?”

  Dillal continued, “I mean no harm to the Ohba of the Green Houses and I did not kill Bomodai. I came to speak with her and found her murdered.”

  Fahn did not shift. “It is being grateful that it would not then be having to kill the auntie itself.”

  “I would no more murder the auntie than you would.”

  Fahn threw him aside like rotten fruit and Dillal stumbled to his knees, catching himself with one hand before he could be dashed to the ground on his side.

  Fahn closed the distance in an instant, clutching at Dillal’s face, digging his strong fingers into the skin around the ocular frame. The big old Ohba bent over him and growled between bared teeth. “What will it be doing if we are ripping its metal eye from its head?” he asked, shaking Dillal and drawing blood that seeped down the younger man’s cheek.

  “Die, I suppose,” Dillal replied as evenly as the violent motion allowed. “I will die, as you have so often wished. And you will have killed a senior investigator.” Fahn stopped shaking him, but did not let go as Dillal continued, “Those three ofiçes who were chasing me will be quick enough to point the finger at you—they must work for Jolongodi, because you would never bed with the corporation. Between it—that wants any excuse to wipe the Ohba off the face of Gattis—and him, there won’t be much left of you. If you still want to kill me knowing that, then do it. Do it and give them what they want.”

  Fahn bellowed with rage and flung Dillal away from him, backing a step, as if distancing himself from the idea as much as the man in front of him. The inspector hit the ground hard, his breath knocked from his lungs. The rest of the Ohba standing in the shadows muttered and swayed.

  Dillal lay as he’d fallen for a moment, blinking, while Uncle Fahn raged. “Our son is dead because of this corpse and its whore of a mother! We are solitary in the heart of us—this one’s wife, all this one’s flesh, is dead—yet it is still being here, this worthless piece of yellow shit! We should have been having the corpse’s mother torn to shreds before it could be born!” He ripped down meters of the hanging aminta, shredding it and sending its perfume into the air as he screamed. “We should have been having it strangled as it was being shat from its mother’s womb!”

  Dillal sat up slowly, drawing his knees in and leaning forward until he could rest his uninjured cheek against them. “She died soon enough,” he said quietly, pressing his left hand over his prosthetic until it clicked back into place. “And my father died for believing things could change for all the colored—for Ohba and Dreihleen and even for mets—not because he loved a woman whose skin was a different shade than his. I apologize for my
tenacity in remaining alive—I know how my existence offends you.”

  His grandson’s calm seemed to have infected him as Fahn drew closer and finally replied. “Nor o-sum. Why is it being here now?”

  Dillal rolled to his knees and stood slowly, taking a long breath and keeping his eyes cast down. He replied so quietly that Fahn had to lean close to hear him. “You’ve heard of the murders in the Dreihleat.”

  “A good start being made on removing their stain from our planet.”

  Dillal shrugged. “Some were shot. It appears the bullets were acquired from Auntie Bomodai. I have let no one know of this.” He raised his eyes to Fahn’s. “I came to ask her who bought them. To tell her to flee until the killers are caught.”

  “Why is it doing this? The auntie was never having any more liking of it than we.”

  “Nor I her, but I do not wish for this to become the cause Corporation House wants to destroy the Ohbata.”

  Fahn narrowed his eyes. “What matter is this being to the corpse walking, when it has been selling itself to the parasites? We are knowing what it has done. We are knowing what it is.”

  “You do not. Little as you like it, I am my father’s son.”

  Fahn growled a warning. “It is treading on the grave . . . We are hoping that it, too, will be found now with its skull being smashed open in the Agrian desert.”

  Dillal closed his eyes and sighed, then looked at the ground bedside Fahn’s feet. “Grandfather, do you want me dead so much that you would sacrifice everyone here for it? If I cannot solve this before word leaks out—as it will—that the Ohbata was involved, the case will be taken from me and summarily closed as a race-related crime. No one else will even try to find the truth. And you know what will happen after that.”

  Fahn stepped back, peering at Dillal with a speculative expression. Dillal shifted his own gaze to watch Fahn, but he didn’t turn his head.

  One of the Ohba stepped out of the shadows and leaned to whisper into Uncle Fahn’s ear. Fahn scowled, whispered back, then waved the other away.

  He turned back to Dillal. “It is claiming it is being here to do a favor for the Ohba. We all are knowing death well enough to concede it is not then murdering Auntie Bomodai. But that one is dead nonetheless and the corpse must answer. It is doing nothing but bringing bad memories and the stink of death, but we shall be having truth.”

  Fahn glanced at the patrol who had brought Dillal there. “Maani, Gant. Be taking it to the pools.” Then he returned his gaze to his grandson for a moment.

  Dillal stood as expressionless and unmoving as stone.

  Fahn chuckled. “Go willingly, or we will be having Maani break its legs and be carrying it where it must go.” Then he turned and walked away into the dark, trailed by the man who had whispered in his ear.

  Maani and the teenage boy grinning brutally beside him closed in behind Dillal. The boy, Gant, unslung an elderly rifle from his back and prodded the inspector forward. Dillal clenched his teeth and went ahead of them into the darkness between the rustling plants.

  The building was a long, low, cement-printed block at the edge of fields that had gone feral. Water still ran through the pipes and troughs of the old hydroponics tanks. An office and control area hung above the work floor, up an extruded cement staircase, its walls low and full of broken windows. The constant, swift flicker of monitors connected to a hardline data feed illuminated the mezzanine and cast inconstant shadows down onto the water flowing in the troughs. Fish flashed between the fronds of water poppy growing in the nearest trough and sent ripples across the surface.

  Dillal balked just past the doorway. Gant shoved him forward and the inspector spun around. “I have done nothing deserving this. I did not kill the Auntie, nor bring that fate down on her.”

  “So it is saying,” Maani replied, taking a step closer to Dillal that caused the slimmer man to step back nearly to the trough’s edge. “But we shall be washing the truth from its lies.”

  “I haven’t lied—” Dillal feinted left. Maani intercepted his reversal as Gant stepped in and drove his rifle’s stock hard into the inspector’s gut.

  Dillal doubled up with a cough of expelled breath. The two Ohba spun him around and shoved him toward the trough, muscling Dillal’s upper body over the edge.

  “Can it hold its breath as long as the caddis flies?” Gant asked. Then he gave a short laugh, and shoved the inspector’s head into the water between the water poppies’ broad leaves.

  A gold-and-white spotted fish as long as his arm swept past Dillal’s face in alarm, scraping his cheek with a sharp-edged fin. Dillal shut his eyes and mouth in a tight grimace, but he didn’t fight.

  Above the water, Maani and Gant scowled at his still back, then looked to each other, letting their grip slacken. Dillal kicked back sharply, hitting Gant’s thigh, and then turned aside as he rose, getting his back to the trough. Water ran down, washing thin blood from the cut on his face and leaving him soaked. While the boy was still off balance, Dillal threw himself forward and butted him hard just below the sternum. Gant buckled backward as Maani jumped forward to grapple Dillal from the side. Gant scrambled up, trying to bring his rifle to bear as the door opened behind him. Maani grabbed Dillal by the upper arm and yanked him back toward the door. Gant grinned with a hint of malice and curled his finger in from the trigger guard.

  Fahn put a heavy hand on Gant’s shoulder and the boy stiffened. “Gant. We are having another purpose for the corpse than painting our walls.”

  Maani held Dillal’s arm tightly. “It is not then being proved by water.”

  Fahn nodded. “Nor o-sum. We are having something to be showing the corpse. We may be changing its mind about its masters and its . . . friends.” He turned and walked toward the stairs.

  Dillal made no move until Maani walked him forward. Gant fell back to follow, keeping his rifle trained on Dillal’s back. No one saw Dillal’s flickering smile as they drew closer to the whisper of the hardline.

  The mezzanine formed a long, narrow room crowded with controls and monitors along the low walls that overlooked the floor, and a few locked cabinets against the back wall. A data suite had been cobbled from dissimilar parts and mounted to the counter about a third of the room’s length from the door, its screen providing the room’s weirdly flickering light. A skeletal chair of metal and stretched netting sat alone before the display.

  Dillal curled his lip and allowed himself to be prodded to the chair. As soon as Dillal sat, Fahn handed Maani a freestanding drive cube about twenty centimeters on each side, and motioned to the lockers with his head. Maani walked across the room to retrieve something as Fahn watched. Gant slung his rifle, stepped up, and held Dillal’s left wrist against the chair arm, taking a wire tie from his pocket to secure him. The inspector didn’t pull his arm away but snapped his head toward the boy and snarled at him with bared teeth. Gant flinched.

  “Touch me again, and I break you.”

  Gant lurched forward with a furious expression and Fahn stopped him with a glare. Gant narrowed his eyes and stepped back, the wire tie hanging loose.

  Dillal shifted his gaze to Fahn. “I came voluntarily. You needn’t tie me. Unless you mean to torture me further.”

  Fahn offered only a knowing smile. “Maani.”

  Fahn’s lieutenant stepped forward with the drive cube and a cable, and connected them to the comm unit. Then he stepped back to Fahn, drawing a small, homemade shock box from his clothes.

  There was a noise on the staircase outside and the three Ohba turned toward it. Gant moved to cover the door as it opened to a newcomer, who blurted, “Jolongodi’s sandworms—”

  Dillal snatched the cable out of the comm box and lifted it toward the socket behind his left ear. Electricity sparked to his wet skin, then the display flickered and returned to its previous busy scan while Dillal closed his eyes a moment, frowning.

  Fahn and Maani started toward the runner as Gant lowered his gun. The Ohbas spoke together in low whispers
for a minute or so. Then Maani glanced back toward Dillal and let out a surprised yell.

  The inspector came to his feet and whipped around, the cable trailing from behind his ear. Gant lifted his rifle. Dillal heaved the chair at him. It knocked the gun’s muzzle upward, smashing into the boy’s face and Gant staggered back, bleeding from the nose and forehead. The runner on the landing jumped back and Maani jumped forward with the shock box held out toward the left side of Dillal’s head.

  The inspector turned aside, raising his right hand between the box and his skull as Maani pressed the discharge button. The arc hit Dillal’s hand and seemed to spin him back into the counter, yanking the cable loose from the socket behind his ear.

  Dillal, with his right arm hanging loose, scrambled onto the counter and threw himself through the nearest empty window. He tumbled over the edge and vanished, followed by a splash from one of the tanks below.

  Maani started for the window. Gant, swiping at his bloody face, headed for the mezzanine office door and shoved the newcomer aside. Fahn joined him. They both looked through the doorway, searching for Dillal.

  Gant turned his gaze. “Door!” he shouted, and brought the rifle up as he spotted Dillal near the building’s exit. Fahn put his hand over the near sight and pushed Gant’s rifle down. “Still.”

  Dillal bolted outside.

  “Uncle!” Gant complained. Maani and the newcomer also stared at the elder man.

  Fahn watched the door swing closed behind his grandson. “Let it run. The corpse will be doing our work for us.”

  All the other men stared at him, but Fahn only turned up a sharp, white-toothed smile.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Day 4: Saturday—Morning

  The drugs let Matheson sleep later than he’d meant to and gray illumination through the light pipes made his flat feel like it was under a dozen centimeters of dirty water. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, sprawled across the bed face down—that had been easier on his back and sides, but he’d done himself no favors with his broken nose. He got upright slowly, wincing and swallowing pain, stuffed his stained and stinking clothes into the disposal chute, and made his gingerly way behind the wet wall. The tepid shower loosened some of the stiffness in his muscles and joints, but left his skin stinging as if he’d bathed in salt water.