Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel

by K. R. Richardson

  “It’s not good for the Dreihleat if I don’t find them,” Matheson replied as quietly.

  Minje narrowed his eyes, then shrugged and turned away with his burden of dirty dishes.

  Matheson stared after him and tried not to look at Aya while he waited, but she caught in his mind even when he kept his eyes off her. When he gave up and glanced her way, she returned a tilted scowl. Her eyes glittered with sparks even at a distance and he made himself look away. He didn’t dare talk to her yet, not when he was wondering if her rending howl had been sincere.

  He saw Minje check in with Aya twice, receiving obvious sharp retorts from her. She was no busier than Minje but she didn’t make an excuse to come and talk.

  When the crowd thinned, Minje came back, bringing a large mug of tea. “She’s say you’re drink this,” he said. “Is for your pressure kisses.” The words sounded like “prezher kizziz.”

  Matheson frowned. “My what?” he asked, taking the warm, heavy cup.

  Minje brushed a fingertip under his own eye. “Bruise. Somebody’s break your nose, heh?”

  “That’s just what shows.”

  “Your cousins’re do this?”

  “Cousins? Dreihleen use that word a lot, but they can’t all be related to one another. So, what’s it mean, really?”

  “Is family. Kind. Is also family’s not your blood—is an honor-word.”

  “I see. Yeah. My cousin ofiçes did this to me.”

  Minje shook his head. “Bad dogs. You’re not quit?”

  “No,” Matheson snapped.

  Minje smiled and tucked his head down, chuckling to himself. “Heh. I like you, right man.” His expression sobered as he looked up again. “You’re tell me what you’re afeared.”

  “It’s not a fear, it’s an inevitability. If the inspector and I can’t break the case in two more days, we’ll be out of funding and it’ll be summarily closed. GISA will just pick someone expedient to blame and give Corporation House the excuse it wants to suppress the ghettos. And then what? You fight a superior force and die, or do you all stand still and allow yourselves to be transported to the agricamps? Neither makes any sense and yet . . . I spoke with Dreihleen who know—or suspect—who did this but won’t tell me. Why? Why would a man who is so torn apart by this that he howls in pain keep that to himself?”

  “Is keeping that’s make him howl, maybe?”

  “How can telling me be worse?”

  Minje offered a sad flicker of a smile. “You’re not Dreihleen. There’s much worse than t’lose one beloved.”

  “Yes, and apparently talking to me is one of those worse things.”

  “Is not you.”

  “I know it’s not me—it’s what I don’t know.” Matheson closed his eyes and shook his head—sometimes it seemed utterly clear why this was happening, and then it slipped into shadows and doubt. “Dillal says you’re useful and I need to find the intersection of Denny’s bad dog friends and whatever crawled out of the Tomb that makes a parent willing to let his child’s murder go unsolved.”

  Minje frowned silently a while. “Denny Leran . . . he’s not my kind.”

  “Not your clan?”

  Minje nodded. “Not my society—not any society.”

  “He’s an unaff.”

  Minje shook his head. “No, no. Free. Has friends in two, three societies. His mother, his uncle . . . all different societies. Unaff . . . they’re . . . ghosts among the lost. Denny’s friends I’m not know—could not say.”

  Matheson considered the phrase in silence.

  Minje watched him a moment, then said, “Kind nor corporation’s not the only thing can hurt us.”

  The clans had pressured Dillal to close, so if not them, what? “It’s like something swimming under the surface that I can’t see, but I know it’s there,” Matheson muttered to himself.

  Minje looked unhappy and stared at the mug Matheson hadn’t touched yet. “You’re should drink.”

  Matheson picked up the cup mechanically and tasted the brew—it was bitter and smelled like sour apples. Aya’s tea . . . Truth or lies? She says the tea’s helpful. Maybe it is, but what if it’s like water poppy seeds? “Is this like the escudos?”

  Minje made a rueful face. “Sorry—should not have given them you. Cousin Aya’s tea’s safe.”

  The warmth of the tea was surprisingly pleasant, even if the taste wasn’t. Minje was puckish, but was he dangerous? And Aya? There was a tangle. If she wanted to harm him, she’d had ample chance while he’d been thinking with his dick. But, there were more ways to do harm than sticking a knife in someone. What the hell. Matheson nodded stiffly and drank some more tea. There were gaps in everything and the solutions glimmered like dust motes he couldn’t catch. Perhaps one answer would lead to another.

  “What about the unaffiliated?” he asked. “Would you know them?”

  “Some. Who you’re look for?”

  “I don’t know his name. A boy about fifteen or sixteen. I saw him down near the Velas’ home—near the tunnels.” He tapped his own upper arm with his free hand. “He has a Tzena society tattoo on his shoulder that’s been burned or cut—scarred over. He seemed to know Leran and Robesh at least enough to say they weren’t friends.”

  Minje narrowed his eyes in thought. “Weren’t friends? Is that he’s say, this boy?”

  “He said ‘they’re no friends’ actually.”

  “What question you’re asked him?”

  “Just trying to find a link between Denny and Venn—before I found out about Dohan Sewing.”

  Minje glanced over his shoulder toward Aya. She stood beside the counter glaring at two Dreihleen men who seemed to be arguing. Minje looked away, his gaze skipping around the room before it came back to Matheson. “Zanesh,” he said, looking troubled. “He’s not mean Venn and Denny’s not friends. He’s mean they’re knowing Friends.”

  “Friends . . . I don’t understand.”

  Minje shook his head adamantly. “And I’m not say more.”

  Matheson sighed in frustration “How ’bout his last name?” Matheson asked. “Zanesh what?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Then how can I find him?”

  “Can’t. Unless you’re go t’Agria. He’s arrested.”

  “Merry fucking hell!” Matheson swore, thumping the nearly empty mug on the rail. The boy might as well be dead for all the chance Matheson had of finding him in the work camps, even if he had time to look.

  A few of the lingering customers stared at him, then looked away—hopper and Dreihleen alike.

  “What about the tunnels?” Matheson asked, lowering his voice again.

  Minje’s expression was grim. “Full of knives and voices. You’d not pass alive.”

  “Knives and voices?”

  “Violent ones and politicals. They’re work together too much now.”

  Dissent that went past rhetoric to physical confrontation—that would be the reason for Angra Dastrelas’s notorious riot response protocol. Matheson shivered with remembered nightmares and felt an idea slip into place. Politicals . . . the corner speakers. They were always here on weekends. . . . “Two people can chase the same idea to different ends . . .”

  Minje leaned closer to him. “Finish your tea. Wait for quiet. Then talk t’Aya.” The Dreihle gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Is not wise to feel like you do.”

  “What?”

  Minje picked up the mug and started to go. “Care less, hurt less.”

  Matheson scowled after Minje as he walked away. He stuck to his bit of the now-empty cup rail, convincing himself he could talk to Aya without either shaking her for the truth or thinking of her under him, wrapped around him . . .

  He glanced toward her and saw she’d leaned toward the two men at the counter and her face held the same cold anger he’d seen flicker in it the night before. She spoke to them in Dreihleen. One of the men took a step away from her while the other glowered back. She spat a word at him and the man turned sharply aw
ay, stalking toward the door while his companion scurried alongside. She stared at them until they’d gone, then flicked a warmer glance at Minje as he stopped beside her. They exchanged a word and she gave a small nod.

  She left Minje to the cleanup, and walked toward Matheson—swaying the way she had on the roof, raising exactly the ache he didn’t want, and an equal pain that worked against his doing anything about it.

  Aya stopped in front of him, turning her head a bit sideways and looking at him from the corners of her eyes. A strand of her hair fell past her ear. “You’ve habit of injury? Tea helped?”

  He started to say no, but it wasn’t true—he was still sore and tired, but the all-over pressing, rubbing irritation had faded and only the deepest aches were obvious now—at least while he was standing still. “Not a habit, just the result of being stubborn. And yes, the tea helped.” Should I question her or take her to bed? And will I survive it if I do?

  She cast her glance over him as if she could catalog his bruises through his clothes. “Minje’s worried for you—likes you.”

  “So he said. What about you?”

  She put out her hand. “Should talk elsewhere.”

  He didn’t move. “I think it’s safer if we don’t.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him, then waved at an empty corner couch that was screened from the door. “Sit?”

  Matheson didn’t even look. “I’d rather stand.”

  “Where patrol sees you?”

  He gave it a moment’s irritated consideration, glanced toward the windows where he could see the Gattian sky beginning to darken and stripe with sunset clouds, then said slowly, “Bugger them.” What more can they do? Break some bones next time? Kill me? So long as I don’t put any of them under the gun, they’ll get over it.

  Aya’s smile had a knowing quirk. “You’re have more questions?”

  “I do.” How to start . . . ?

  The room settled toward silence as Minje walked the last customers to the door and locked it behind them. Then he called out, “I’m clean up, heh?”

  Aya raised her head with a jerk. “In back, Minje. I’m clean here.”

  Minje frowned at them. “Cousin—”

  “What? This ofiçe will rob me?” she asked, her voice heavy with irony.

  Minje looked at Matheson as if considering it. “More worried what you’re do to him,” he said.

  Aya gave him a chilly stare, then turned back to Matheson. “I’m frighten you?”

  “You scare the life out of me.”

  Aya glanced at Minje and nodded at him to leave. Minje shrugged and headed for the back room, casting a frown at Matheson as he went.

  Matheson stood stone still, tangled in suspicion and desire that stabbed like thorns. Even his aches were less persuasive than they had been. “You have me alone, after all.”

  “Is better.”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Is’t not?” she asked, raising her hand to touch his face.

  He flinched and his back hit the cup rail. Sharp pain stabbed through his ribs and he cried out. The twinge bloomed into a throbbing that made him gasp and clench his teeth, no matter how he resisted. He clutched the rail to hold himself up.

  Minje ran back into the room and to Aya’s side, but he looked at Matheson. “You’re new injured?”

  “No. Just hit something,” Matheson said between gasps. “Merry fucking hell that hurts . . .”

  “Work room,” Aya said, starting to slide her arm around him.

  The brush of her arm across his back spread the fiery ache all across his skin and he sucked in a hard breath, holding back another flinch that would only make it worse. “Don’t. Please, don’t . . .”

  “Fool.” She peered at him. “What’s not hurt?” she asked.

  Matheson had to think, sorting the current flare of agony from the simmering aches and the general irritation of his skin. “Not much,” he had to admit. “But nothing bleeding this time.”

  “Minje, the boiler, then go. I’m look after our good police.”

  Minje snorted. “He’s no worse when you’re done, heh?”

  Aya snarled at him.

  Minje ran back to the work room while Aya and Matheson followed more slowly. He’d thought he was improving, but the flare of pain put the lie to that. He was relieved to prop himself on the edge of a stool, though resting even part of his weight against it sent knives of pain up his spine and through his hips to his groin. He laid his forehead against the cool steel surface of the work counter, keeping his broken nose clear of it. “Fuck . . .” He felt drained as the immediate wash of pain subsided.

  “Ofiçes’re do this to you?” Aya asked.

  She didn’t seem to include him in the scorn she heaped on the word ofiçes. “Yes.”

  “Show me.”

  “No.”

  “Coward.”

  “Not. Just . . . No. Too much to do.”

  “You’re not rest, you’re not heal.”

  “What’s that saying? ‘I’ll rest when I’m dead.’” He tried to rise.

  She pressed her palm between his shoulder blades. The strength of her arm and the pain of the pressure conspired to make his knees buckle. “Will be soon enough, you’re not taking care now.”

  “How much will it matter if I can’t get answers that fit?” he asked as he gave in and turned his head to rest his cheek on the cool counter.

  “What questions you’re have, now?” she asked, walking away.

  “Can I trust you?”

  “That’s your question?”

  “One of them.”

  Someone made a snorting noise and the boiler hissed loudly. “I’m go,” said Minje. “You’re want I should open tomorrow, Cousin?”

  “I’m do it,” Aya said. “I’m throw this fish back if it stinks.”

  Minje chuckled and Matheson heard him leave through the back door. Silence held sway a while before Aya spoke, and little pieces came together in his mind. Rela and Minje and the boy . . .

  “You’re think I lie to you.”

  He couldn’t see her, but he was aware of her standing nearby. “Not a lie, just not the whole truth. You and Minje must know which of the political or revolutionary groups frequent your own café, so you’re both aware who Denny and Venn knew in common, you just don’t want to tell me.”

  “Why you’re think their friends’re anything t’do with Sunday speakers?”

  “You said so—Venn came to listen and Denny would find her here, so he knew where she was because he knew what she was doing and with whom.”

  She made a sound in her throat that was cut off by the louder sound of the boiler, the splash of water, and the hiss of steam. Then he smelled herbs and something medicinal, sharp. She walked behind him—he could feel the warmth of her there.

  “This helps your pressure kisses,” she said, laying something hot and wet against his back.

  It felt like a soaked towel and he gasped as it pressed on him. It stung. Then the heat began to work, soaking into his muscles like the water into his shirt. He sighed in spite of himself. “Nothing will ever feel this good . . .”

  “Sure of that, are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you’re not trust me?”

  “I want to. I’ve been trying to put this together,” he said. He felt heavy and tired and let the words run out of him. Let me be right about her. Mother of stars, let me be right . . . “What is worth letting the deaths of family, neighbors, and friends go unpunished? Worth the risk of the corporation’s further caprice and oppression? It’s not just a crime—it’s linked to something bigger that could be threatened by solving the crime. Hope’s a vicious thing . . .”

  Aya stepped around to peer into his face, bending down until she was almost close enough to kiss. “Hope’s vicious? Hope’s all we’re have.”

  He closed his eyes a moment and nodded slightly, his cheek rubbing the warming steel counter. He looked at her without raising his head. “Whic
h brand of hope are you buying?”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “That’s what politicians sell—even street corner politicians,” Matheson said. He knew them—they were no different than his family and their highly polished cronies. The back-garden politicians, the street corner activists, and park bench revolutionaries, all the weavers of false promises were the same except for the gloss on their suits. He had grown up beside them, been raised by them. “They peddle it like drugs—first fear, then hope. Such desperate hope that it is worth the blood of innocents.”

  He closed his eyes against unexpected tears and a growing tightness in his throat. “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to be the father of a dead child, and every Dreihle I meet seems to be related to too many ghosts. It’s a terrible price, but some people are willing to keep paying it on the promise that this wretched system is going to get better. Isn’t that it? That’s why Con Robesh won’t tell me who his daughter knew—even though his wife tried to kill herself over it, even though it tears him apart. That’s why the Velas have disappeared, why Dreihleen won’t answer my questions. Someone sold them this idea—this belief, whatever it may be—and they know that someone close to it killed their families and neighbors.”

  He heard her take a sharp breath. “You’re think we’re monsters.” Her voice had an odd catch in it.

  “No, but I think that whoever did this isn’t worth protecting. They didn’t just rob these people. They didn’t kill them by accident—they murdered them, calmly and systematically while their victims were helpless on their knees. And now they hide in the center of the trust and belief they’ve betrayed.” He imagined the hundreds of thousands of Dreihleen dead over two centuries, like ghosts on a battlefield.

  “Only three people knew of this evidence—SO Matheson, me, and you. And now, somehow, Director Pritchet and the sharks at Corporation House. This slip threatens the investigation.” The inspector didn’t seem angry, or cold, just as tired as the man in front of him.

  The street signs and sunset shining through Dillal’s office window painted transient colors on Starna’s face, his eyelids drooping in despair. “It wasn’t me.” He opened his eyes and stared at the inspector. “I swear it. I would think you, of all people, would—”