“As I haven’t read it, I can’t.”
“He kissed it.”
Dillal tilted his head and served her a cynical look. “That a troubled young man—whatever our professional association—developed an obsession that was entirely one-sided and in no way encouraged does not place an automatic supposition of guilt upon me for his choice to take his life. I’m sorry for it, nonetheless, but guilty of inciting it? No.”
“The two of you spent a lot of time together in your office—which has no monitor.”
Dillal was silent and uncannily still for several seconds, then snorted and appeared on the verge of laughing at her. “He worked for me. If you study the durations of those periods when Starna and I were alone in my office, you’ll see that the longest meeting we had without interruption was no more than ten minutes. Hardly time to consummate an illicit affair with a subordinate—unless you mean to insult my sexual capability as well as my judgment and professional conduct.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
Dillal pushed away from the counter on which he’d been leaning. “I have more pressing business than being the object of your unnecessary investigation.”
He started to walk away, but Neme called out after him, “Pritchet will not see you. Not until I clear your ass.”
Dillal whipped around to face her again. “Innocent people will die if I can’t persuade the director to see certain things my way. I don’t have time to let you indulge your spite.”
She smirked at him and reached into her jacket pocket. She pulled out a small sheaf of flimsy. “Read the letter.”
He snatched it from her and began reading. His right brow drew down and his lopsided expression seemed pained as he continued through to the end. He closed his eyes and handed the flimsy back to her without a word.
“What did he mean ‘I can’t be what you want’?” Neme asked.
“Not what you imagine.”
“And the sample he mentioned?”
Dillal took a deep breath, appearing resigned to an unpleasant necessity, and looked up at her. “I need to see it again.”
“See what?”
“The monitor video.”
Her expression hovered between incredulity and disgust. “Why?”
“The early section. I need to see what he was doing, what he was working on, before he undressed.”
“There’s the sidebar list—”
“That is not enough. I need to know what he did with the information and how that’s reflected in his note to me.”
“And that’s going to help exactly . . . how?”
“I’m not sure that it will, but it’s all I can offer. As you won’t allow me to leave until I’ve satisfied your morbid curiosity, I’ll do what I can. And for the love of everything decent, let Dr. Woskyat leave. There’s no reason to torment the woman.”
The east tunnel wandered through the cliff for a long, dark distance, getting narrower and smaller, the air growing stale and slow-moving. It branched less and the debouchments disappeared just before it ran into a crumbling cul-de-sac. Aya turned sideways and slipped into a fissure in the rotten stone. Matheson followed.
They stumbled forward a while. The other side was a little fresher, but no brighter or larger. Matheson’s mobile was uncomfortably bright when he checked it. There was no transmitter signal at all in the tunnels and it was growing late. I hope Dillal’s convinced Pritchet to hold off. He didn’t want to emerge from the cliff into a combat zone.
His night vision ruined, Matheson called a temporary halt and put his mobile in his shirt. “How far do you think this goes?” he asked.
He felt Aya sink down next to him. “I’m not know. Sit.”
He settled gratefully to the ground and was silent for a while.
“Why didn’t you turf me?” he whispered.
Her quiet reply was flat. “And wreck what we’re go to do? Why I’m should?”
He folded his hands together in his lap, rubbing one thumb nervously over the opposite knuckle. “Because of what I did. At Camp Donetti.”
“You’re remember what you’re did now?”
“No.”
“That’s why. You’re come angry with me for what I’m do. Is fair. I’m all you’re think I am, but I’m trust th’Eric I’m know yesterday. Today I’m see another and I’m want t’hate you for it. But how’s it justice if you’re not know what you’re did?”
There were little scraping, clicking sounds in the dark and he wondered if there was a centipede nearby, creeping up on them. He shivered. “But you—that doesn’t change my guilt . . . in your mind.”
“And yours?”
“I . . . can’t change it. I can only do better, right now.”
“Then we’re do. We’re do as Djepe’s ask.”
“You trust him now? Even though—” Matheson struggled for the right thing.
“He’s bong met? You’re know it means ‘the dead of mixed flesh’ heh?”
That wasn’t what he’d been groping for, but Matheson was almost grateful for the turn in the conversation. “What a repulsive term.” The small sounds came closer. Matheson shifted and got his feet under him.
“Ohba word for a terrible thing. We’re so few, and children’re hard born. If not of our blood, we’re dwindle away. Th’Ohba the same. So my mam’s say.”
He could hear her rise to her feet, felt her brush past him in the darkness. “She’s love an Ohba man, but I’m never understand why. Maybe she’s want us to dwindle—all become one thing.”
“You are all one thing—”
Light blinded them and a heavy hand fell on Matheson’s shoulder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Day 5: Evening into Night
“There are being rats in our tunnels. Scrawny yellow rats.” The voice rumbled, soft and low, like a distant earthquake.
Matheson winced under the pressure—the man’s hand felt unnaturally heavy—but he pushed up from the floor as hard as he could, reaching for the wrist and shoulder of the man who’d grabbed him. He snatched for a hold that would let him drag the man over and down but in spite of his bulk, the man spun aside with ease, shoving Matheson forward and off balance. Then he felt a foot on his back, pushing him to the ground as Aya snarled nearby. He heard someone grunt followed by scrabbling noises, then the thump of fist against flesh and Aya yelped.
The man above and behind him leaned more of his weight onto Matheson’s spine, sending a jolt of pain through his bruised back, and the dazzle of the light around him shifted, cast down from directly above. “Still, bitch, or this one is breaking him.”
Aya said nothing, but the pressure vanished from Matheson’s back, and a hard hand grabbed his upper arm and yanked him to his feet. Someone reached around him and removed Matheson’s belt. Then something hard prodded his back.
“Coming nicely, or both of you are making pretty corpses.”
Matheson had no choice but to stumble forward, glad he’d had to stow his mobile in his shirt where it hadn’t been seen and taken from him. He brushed it with his arm, hitching it to the side where it was better hidden. He tried to catch Aya’s gaze as he walked.
She did not look at him, only straight ahead with a hard expression. Matheson made a quick count of the Ohba around them: four. The one immediately behind him wasn’t more than a teenager, and had all the signs of a recently broken nose. He glared at Matheson, who also fixed his eyes forward. Can’t fight these odds in such a close space. They walked in silence for a while until they filed out of the tunnel into low light and the odor of things growing in fertile tropical rot. A pair of long, lean hounds with scarred heads and tattered ears fell in behind them.
The sun was nearly down—or an early spring storm was rolling in—judging by the gray illumination through the translucent roof. The ground underfoot was soft, sandy, and loose. Plants grew in troughs, dangled from trellises, and sprang from the ground in profusion. Matheson recognized the heavy, sweet scent of aminta, cannabis, and poppy, the sharp salt smell of
salfrin, and the stink of hydroponic fertilizer. More men and a few women stepped out of the artificial jungle and accompanied the patrol. They were all Ohba of various ages, and most, Matheson noted, were armed with old guns—long-ago decommissioned military firearms for the most part, simple and gleaming with care. He recognized some of the weapons from his own experience shooting in sport and competition, but others were new to him. All looked equally lethal.
“Where are we?” Matheson asked.
The boy behind him rapped the back of his head lightly with something hard. “Not knowing where you’ve come? You two are making worthless spies.”
“Not spies. We’re—”
His escort smacked him again. “Quiet. This one is telling what you are being, sandworm.”
Matheson sighed and his ribs reminded him that was still a risky activity. “Another man—or men—came this way today,” he started.
This time the blow to the back of his head made him stumble and fall against one of the newcomers. They shoved him back and forth for a moment while the hounds yipped and snapped. Matheson considered running, but between the armed patrol, his aches, the dogs, and the unknown territory, he had no chance, and he wouldn’t abandon Aya. He trudged on as soon as he was allowed. The occasional humid breeze picked up the smell of familiar spicy cooking—meat, onions, and hot peppers—that grew stronger as they walked on.
They wound through the weird landscape and passed a long, low building. Then the plants thinned into a wide clearing. Several rugs were strewn at one edge of the clearing and a group of Ohba sat on small stools or on the carpets, sharing food from several dishes laid before them and watching one standing man who seemed to be reciting something. Matheson thought one or two people were familiar, but in the dim light and dressed as they were in loosely flowing clothes of dull colors, details were impossible to pick out at his distance. The majority of the escort faded back into the greenery as their original captors goaded Matheson and Aya the last few meters toward the seated group, with the dogs at heel.
The gathered folk ignored them while the speaker finished what he was saying with an expansive flourish of his hands. That man stepped aside to sit with the rest of the group and revealed a large man seated on a stool that set him just a few centimeters higher than everyone around him. This man said a few low words, turned, and put out his hands to the figure on his left. They both rose to their feet. Their shoulder-clasping embrace had the look of formality to it, but there was fondness in their slight smiles.
As the couple broke apart and the big man turned to address the newcomers, Matheson recognized Christa Santos as the other half of the embrace. She gave him the same steady, impassive look she’d worn the last time he saw her, though her face seemed older now and her eyes were red-rimmed. Stars, it’s been less than twelve hours . . .
Matheson inclined his head. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he started.
Before he could say more, the guy with the broken nose pushed down on his shoulder at the same time he delivered a sharp tap to the back of Matheson’s leg. The nearest hound growled low. Matheson landed on his knees with a gasp and felt the man’s hand slap the back of his head, the fingers digging into his hair.
“Still.” The order was quietly given in a low, reverberant voice.
The youth released him and moved a little away. Matheson raised his eyes, then, more slowly, his head, anticipating a blow that didn’t come. The women in their company had all fallen back, leaving only the men, boys, and one dog to guard them. He could just spot Aya kneeling at his side if he shifted his gaze, but knowing she was all right was enough. He watched the people in front of him.
Christa leaned in and whispered to the big man, who nodded and moved from the circle of diners, drawing closer to Matheson.
He was larger and heavier than the people with him, older, stately, and grave. If they’d both been standing, the top of the Ohba’s head would have been level with Matheson’s jaw. His clothes were a dark, red-brown duller than his garnet-red skin and hair, and striped in black that hid his shape in the movement of cloud shadows from above. He looked at Matheson and then to the youth beside him, giving no attention to Aya beyond the swiftest flick of a glance. “Being less quick to damage our guest, Gant. He is meaning respect to our sister, though he is speaking out of turn.”
One of the other men in the main circle muttered something Matheson didn’t quite catch. Matheson turned his head to see the speaker as the old man in front of him did the same. Another familiar face: the Ohba man who’d moved in next door. Can’t be a coincidence. Matheson kept his mouth shut and listened.
“Uncle, that is Matheson, the one the corpse is keeping.”
“And the caddis fly?” the older man asked.
Matheson’s neighbor frowned slightly and shook his head. “O-sum.” Nothing. Worthless. Or doesn’t know . . . ?
The big man in the center gave a speculative grunt that rolled in the air as he turned again to regard Matheson. There’d been nothing in any briefs about protocols for interacting with Ohba on their own territory. He’d broken a rule by offering his condolences directly to Christa, but he didn’t know what it was. He’d talked to her before without any repercussion, but that hadn’t been here. And Santos had still been alive.
He was puzzling with it when the elder man stopped half a meter from him. “Matheson. We are being titled Uncle Fahn. Tenzo and Kirita are speaking for you, so you are living a while longer. Be telling us why are you coming here.”
From the corner of his eye, Matheson saw Aya stiffen a little and cringe back, her head down. Matheson raised his own head a little, but kept his eyes down, fearing a direct look would be taken as a challenge. “Uncle Fahn. I’m searching for a man, or two men, I was told came this way earlier today.”
Fahn put a finger under Matheson’s chin and forced his head upward—the strength of the single digit pressing into his jaw was too painful to resist. Fahn peered at him. “Two men?”
“I was told of one, but I think they were together, at least this far.”
Uncle Fahn nodded slowly. “Be describing them.”
“Young, Dreihleen—”
Fahn laughed, cutting him off. “It is animals you are hunting, not men.”
Aya muttered under her breath and Fahn cuffed her with the back of his hand as casually as brushing off a fly. The blow looked slight, but it sent Aya falling into the man beside her. The dog made a warning snap at her, and Matheson started up, but Fahn pushed him back to his knees just as easily. “Be paying no mind to the mewling of clawless cats. You should be at telling us of the caddis flies.”
Matheson shot a glance at Aya as the dog sat guard beside her. She shook her head, though she looked dazed. Fury lanced through him, but going on was his only option. He clamped his feelings down and said, “Their names are Hoda Banzet and Osolin Tchintaka. Politicals. They’re involved in the murders of sixteen people—the crime that may have led to the death of Christa—of Kirita’s husband.”
“You were then working with Kirita’s man.”
He’s got to know this already. Is he testing me? “Yes, sir. He was my training officer, and my friend as well.”
“Be looking us in the eye, boy.”
Matheson looked up, meeting Fahn’s gaze, and holding onto a bland expression. The dark face in front of him seemed impossibly large, and streaked in phantom violet mud.
Fahn stared at him, the expression as piercing as any of Dillal’s. His eyes were the same jade green as Christa’s, but it was like looking into the eyes of a predator. Fear pricked at the back of Matheson’s neck. He didn’t dare close his eyes against the sudden flash of memory, but locked them on Fahn’s until it passed.
Fahn gave a slow, smile and said, “You are pursuing your caddis flies for your own sake. This is not being for Kirita’s dead man. Your loyalty is lying with whoever is paying best, sandworm.”
“My loyalty is to the truth.”
“Pretty lies are still being
lies.”
Focus on the case, or you’re dead. “No, sir,” Matheson replied. “It’s best if I find these men as quickly as possible or what’s been happening in the Dreihleat will happen here next. One or both of the men I’m seeking came here. You’re canny. You know about them and that when the connection between the Ohbata and the Dreihleat is found—”
“There is being nothing between us and the caddis flies that Corporation House should be seeing ghosts in every corner.” Threat was implicit in the deep, rolling voice.
Matheson pushed on. “Nothing? The tunnels? Ammunition traced to the Ohbata, used to kill sixteen Dreihleen—and one of your own, here in your own territory? It’s all there for the Corporation to find if I don’t give them something else to chew. Right now, only two people aside from those standing here know, and they won’t tell.”
“Who are those that we can be trusting them?”
“One is a technician who doesn’t know the significance of what he’s found. The other is my superior—”
“The corpse walking.”
The corpse—that’s Dillal! More glittering shards of information shifted into focus. “You aided their escape in hopes of obscuring that connection, even though you knew one of them was responsible for what happened at Camp Donetti.” Even the name nauseated Matheson, but it made Fahn shift his gaze a moment and he knew his guess had scored. It shored up his ragged confidence. “Like you know about me, and the ammunition, and the murder of your—”
Fahn snatched Matheson into the air by the throat, shook him, and dropped him again. “Be considering your words with care, sandworm,” he said, his eyes narrowed, but his voice still calm above the warning growl of the hound.
Matheson coughed, buying time to think, as he rose back up on his knees. He kept his head and his voice lowered as he spoke again. “A transport was brought down in the Dreihleat and the blame can be laid anywhere the corporation likes. Given any excuse, you know what Corporation House will chose to do and where it will start. The ground under you is crumbling. Killing us will only make it fall away faster. Help me, and we can stave off the corporation.”
Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel Page 32
