Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel

by K. R. Richardson

  They hitched thin storm coats over their shoulders and made their way out of the complex, passing the carcass of a local azure-and-bronze-striped razor cat hung by its heels from the top of a freight door. Scimitar claws as long as Matheson’s hand scratched tracks in the ground as the door swung to the comings and goings of Gattis Corporation employees wearing Agria Corps blues, and groups in unfamiliar uniforms, bearing the hard look of experienced ground fighters. SOs with sharp-eyed dogs patrolled the fences. Matheson glanced at Dillal, who looked grim.

  “Pritchet’s bought us time, but not much,” the inspector muttered. “And there aren’t as many microtransmitters here—data connection is intermittent at best. We’ll have to get to the GISA offices to retrieve whatever forensic reports Dr. Woskyat’s forwarded.”

  The regional office in Hyldra was more like a military base than a police headquarters—an ugly, cement-printed structure only two stories tall that sprawled at the edge of the original town. Newer buildings had sprung up along each side and stretched the town north and south, but nothing penetrated into the fields on the east farther than the walls and fences of Hyldra Regional, which reached all the way out to the ring road surrounding the town.

  The reception area smelled of mold and the light-blue-clad SO on desk duty was more openly shocked by the sight of Dillal than anyone in Angra Dastrelas had been. She took a step back as they stopped in front of her. “What in fuck—?”

  Dillal growled impatiently as he stripped off his wet coat and laid his left wrist on the security plate beside the barrier. Matheson showed the gaping woman his own ID, not bothering to analyze his pleasure at looming over her. “Inspector Dillal—Angra Dastrelas Regional CIFO. I’m SO Matheson, his acting IAD. We’re in pursuit of two fugitives. You should have access and information notices about it.” He wasn’t inclined to be much more friendly than Dillal—his tolerance for the staring and stupidity was at a low ebb.

  The locks on the barrier clanked open without the help of the desk SO. She jumped at the sound and shot her gaze at Dillal, then back to Matheson. “Let your Regional Director know we’re here,” Matheson said. “We’ll be in the investigation office, unless you have a private office the inspector can use.”

  The SO eyed Matheson warily, her eyes shifting to Dillal and back as the inspector let himself through the gate. “The senior contract intake officer is on leave,” she said, pointing down the spiderweb of hallways to their left.

  Dillal shook his head and Matheson mirrored the action. “We need access to the investigation database.”

  She darted her tongue over her lips. “Um. We only have one data trunk, here.”

  Matheson sighed with disgust—he didn’t need to see Dillal to know his expression was the same. “That’ll have to do.” He took off his own dripping coat and walked through the gate before he turned back to the SO. “Which way to this office?”

  “Orange slideway on hallway two to Contract Intake, then second door on the left.”

  Matheson nodded and turned away. Dillal was several steps ahead of him and didn’t respond to the woman’s hiss for attention. Matheson spun back impatiently.

  “What the hell’s a Sifo?” she asked.

  He glared at the SO. “Look it up—you’ll find it under ‘nemesis.’” He turned to catch up to Dillal.

  The SO’s directions took them to a staff entrance, saving them the trouble of getting in through the main doors. I should have been kinder to her. The contract intake office was busy, muddy, noisy, and crowded with the desperate individuals willing to work in the agricamps voluntarily for pay that never seemed to get them out of whatever debt had driven them to agree to the contract in the first place. How does anyone sink so low that they’ll endure this filth and cacophony to do some of the grubbiest and least-necessary work in the known worlds? Elsewhere, agriculture was managed by technicians and machines, not by stoop labor. But the more he overheard, the more he understood: the staple crops and livestock were not what required attention, but the exotic, engineered products—like Regausa silk—that were unique to Gattis. Matheson doubted the need, but the practice kept the prices high and gave Gattis Corporation a place to dump the destitute, derelict, and dispossessed.

  The senior intake officer’s lair was more like a glorified hallway than an office—long and narrow with a door at each end so the unending line of contractees could enter singly through one portal and vanish out the other. Matheson and Dillal had come in through the crowd of intakes who were trying to find the way out with their completed paperwork in hand. Only a few had been startled by Dillal’s appearance—most were too dazed to notice—and none of them seemed inclined to linger or follow the rumpled ofiçes into the empty office. Matheson locked both doors while Dillal logged in.

  “It’s slower than the system in Angra Dastrelas,” Matheson said.

  “It appears it hasn’t been upgraded since I was here twelve years ago. Even in the buildings the microtransmitter density is poor. We won’t be able to rely on this system once we’re in the field. Upload anything you’ll need from here to your mobile now.”

  “How do they operate with a data stream that’s unreachable in the field?”

  “Brute force and a blind eye. But it also keeps information from leaking.”

  That explained the silence about Camp Donetti.

  “What did Woskyat get?” Matheson asked.

  Dillal barely glanced at the display. “She’s forwarded Starna’s reports as well—the material on Leran’s wrist was, as you suggested, Robesh’s tissue mixed with seal and solvent. Starna’s absence is slowing all reports while Woskyat and the rest take up the slack. She pushed the sole impression down the priority queue to look for prints on the gun. She found some on interior parts. They don’t match Tchintaka or anyone else, but there is DNA trace that confirms the prints as Banzet’s. It won’t put him at the scene, but it does put the gun in his hand, which is enough for now. And that same fingerprint was in-processed under the name ‘Ebanez’ three days ago—”

  “Three? Fahn gave the impression he received the gun yesterday—or today—I’m not sure which day this is now.”

  “He allowed you to take that impression.”

  “Like you.”

  “Call it a family failing,” Dillal replied.

  Matheson snorted and was surprised he could be amused at anything. “So nothing on Tchintaka out here, only Banzet.”

  “Yes, but Norenin had little choice other than giving up one man to protect the other. Once we find Banzet, we’ll know where Tchintaka is.”

  “You think Banzet will give him up—if he knows?”

  “Banzet ran while Tchintaka stayed. Why?”

  Matheson responded without thinking twice. “Fear.”

  “An excellent lever,” Dillal said, “once we find him—the camps are large . . .” Then he frowned.

  “What?”

  “Zanesh—the unaff in your report—is also on Agria.”

  “Merry hell—I missed it!”

  Dillal raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Matheson heaved a sigh of self-disgust. “He was running from Jora and Halfennig and I assumed it was just petty arm-twisting, but he’s the one who said Venn and Denny were connected through the Friends—like a typical Dreihle, he gave the answer I asked for, but not in a way I understood. He knows more and I—”

  Dillal put up his hand to stop Matheson’s self-recriminations. “You’re learning but you’re too impatient yet, and you still trust people too readily. You begin with the tenth question rather than asking for the nine answers you know first.”

  “You make this sound easy and me even less competent . . .” But Dillal wasn’t listening. He had the distracted, distant stare he wore when listening to the datastream.

  “It must be Ejeirie,” Dillal said, “and it will be much easier to find one young criminal there than to find one contractor.”

  “What’s Ejeirie?”

  “It’s the only combined agricamp—t
he primary penal intake, but it’s a trustee unit. Well-behaved, low-risk prisoners are allowed to work there, supplementing contractees who work directly with the transports.”

  “Sounds like a soft berth compared to the rest of this place.”

  “You won’t think so when you see it.”

  There was no rain at Ejeirie. There’d been none for years. What fell from the sky there was fire, and the ground in every direction was cinder and ash that smoldered forever. Mount Toska was more than two hundred meters farther out the peninsula—an impressive sight from upwind. The volcano had risen unexpectedly due to the cracking of Gattis’ crust in the early days of the terraforming project, and now sat in picturesque splendor only a few kilometers away from Agria’s northern peninsula—a peninsula that had not existed before the volcano rose and pushed magma into the seabed until the volcanic island and the continent were nearly joined by a land bridge of basalt. Theory said the eruption would subside in a few decades. In the meantime, it made a lovely tourist attraction—from a safe distance—and a perfect hell of the land below it. Nothing grew, nothing crept, and the air was too hot, dry, and dirty to breathe without filters. At Ejeirie it was tolerable and Gattis Corp’s engineers, biologists, and botanists had found ways to make the ashfall pay, harnessing the heat and pressure, and breeding freakish plants and creatures that thrived in the filthy atmosphere and killing heat. The post, fields, and port were a shifting landscape of windblown ash and everything was gray with it. There were no birds, dogs, or cats to be seen around the port. Only lizards.

  The silken ash and black volcanic grit got into everything. Transports had to be moved under cover as soon as they landed and fitted with expendable filters for their initial jump out. All other vehicles were closed-system electric or heat-transfer drives because nothing else could survive the constant abrasion. Everyone wore caps and coveralls, breathing filters and eye protection, but the grime still slipped past.

  The work of moving the transports and their cargo fell mostly to contractees who came and went as their shifts allowed. The trustee prisoners stayed on the enclosed side of the fence in roughly roofed staging areas, and organized cargo for transshipment. They hauled the electric pallets from the gates to the warehouses by hand. It was filthy work and Zanesh’s filter barely covered his nose and mouth. Matheson almost didn’t recognize the boy he’d caught outside the cliff houses.

  But Zanesh recognized him. He started to bolt, but only got a few steps before he was stopped by two GISA Agria Corps Internment Control SOs. They waved their batons in the kid’s face, their filthy cheeks cracking above the edges of their filters as they smiled, and the unaff turned back. Matheson waited by the electric pallet and took the boy’s arm when he returned.

  Zanesh lifted his chin and stared sideways at Matheson—a distinct change in attitude since they’d last met. “What you’re want?” the boy asked, his mouth tight and teeth clenched even behind the filter.

  In the falling ash, Matheson understood the practicality of the Dreihleen speech habit. His own mouth was already rank with cinders. “Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll tell you.”

  The boy shrugged and walked with Matheson into the dorm building’s prep porch, followed by the two SOs. Matheson removed his outdoor gear, then wiped the dirt and sweat from his face, hair, and hands, but Zanesh was not given the opportunity to do more than pull his own cap, filter, and eye shields off. Matheson picked up a small pod of water and rinsed the filthy taste of the ashfall from his mouth, spat the blackened water into a wash sink, and poured out the rest. Then he led the boy down the room and into the stark gray-and-white mess hall, leaving the two SOs to return to their duties outside.

  Dillal waited for them, clean and seated at a table that was set with pitchers of water and a bowl filled with fruit from more temperate camps in the south. Two new guards stood far at the back by the administration wing door, GISA’s orange star-and-stripe logo bright on the light blue of their Agria Corps uniforms. Dillal shot them a glance and they stepped into the hall, locking the door behind them.

  Zanesh stopped at the edge of the table and turned a cold stare on the inspector, who gave the boy no acknowledgement, and only picked up an orange from the bowl and a small knife from the table top. Matheson nudged Zanesh onto the bench across from Dillal and stood to his right, blocking the easy way out. He received a sneer for his efforts and wondered which attitude was for real—this one or the one he’d seen in Angra Dastrelas.

  Zanesh watched Dillal begin peeling the skin off the orange in a long, continuous spiral, his gaze shifting from the inspector’s hands to his face and back down over and over. The fruit was half unwrapped and dripping juice onto the table top when the inspector spoke. “Zanesh Farrazee. You remember my IAD beside you.”

  The boy made a rude noise in his throat that could have meant anything.

  “In words, or I’ll have your duties switched up to the admin building,” Dillal said, not looking up, “and certain people will be told you’ve been . . . especially accommodating.”

  The boy glared.

  “Once again. You remember SO Matheson.”

  “I’m know him,” Zanesh grumbled.

  The right corner of Dillal’s mouth turned up a fraction. “And you know who I am.”

  Zanesh rolled his eyes. “I’m know you, too, met.” Then he turned his head and gave Matheson a cocky look. “I’m fooled you, dehka.”

  Dillal drove his thumb into the peeled orange. The juice ran onto the table top, pattering like rain. “Ah, now that’s ruined,” he said and flung the fruit aside.

  Zanesh watched the orange splatter on the angelstone floor. He drew in a sharp little breath, then wrenched his gaze back to the table top. “I’m tell what he’s ask.” He sounded defensive.

  “Of course,” said Dillal, picking up a round, dark purple fruit which he began to score along the meridian with his knife. One of Zanesh’s eyes narrowed slightly as if the sight made him uncomfortable.

  Dillal continued, “Like any Dreihle, you know the value of what you say. But you knew something much more useful that you didn’t tell.”

  “Why I’m should? What he’s offer me? Two collectors’re almost take me—”

  “SOs Jora and Halfennig. What did those two want with you? Shaking down unaffs is hardly worth their time, yet they were looking for you.”

  The thick, hard skin of the fruit split and Dillal pulled it apart without looking up. The slight smell of caramel and grass floated into the air as the bulbous white segments within were revealed. “They’re would killed me!” Zanesh objected in a tight voice, his eyes flicking up to Dillal’s face and back down.

  “Why?”

  “Go jump,” the boy muttered, but his tone lacked conviction.

  Dillal smashed the fruit onto the table top and swept the mess onto the floor without a change of expression or a glance at the boy. The sweet smell of the pulp flooded upward as pale juice splashed onto the boy’s coverall sleeve, leaving little clear dots in the dirt.

  Zanesh shrank back a little.

  “The first month is the hardest,” Dillal said. “After that, you begin to forget any taste but ash, any rest without fear, or that you have ever felt clean.”

  The boy stared at him without speaking for nearly a minute. What’s happened to him in only four days?

  Dillal’s voice remained as cool as ever. “Why?”

  Zanesh lowered his gaze to the table top, swallowing and unconsciously rubbing his crusted lips together.

  Dillal poured water into a clear cup, the sound unnaturally loud in the near-empty room.

  Zanesh cut his eyes toward the glass and they grew wider as Dillal pushed the glass toward him. The moment Zanesh reached for it, the inspector tipped it over and the water spread across the table top, running over the edge and onto the floor, splashing over the boy’s hands and turning to black mud as it washed the ash from his skin and sleeves.

  The boy stifled a whimper.

  D
illal tilted his head slightly, enough to catch the unaff’s attention. “That will be your fate if you remain here, Zanesh. Spilled and forgotten like water in sterile ground. Answer our questions without prevarication this time and perhaps you won’t have to stay here.”

  The boy crossed his arms over his chest. He rested one hand on his upper arm where the scarred-over mark of his old association was. His coverall was darker and stiffer there and Matheson wondered if the old wound had become a new one.

  Zanesh gave Dillal a sideways look. “Agria?” he asked.

  “Ejeirie.” Dillal let the right corner of his mouth quirk a little. “We’ll see about the rest.”

  Zanesh glanced down at the spilled water one more time and wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. “I’m overheard them plan.”

  “Who planning what?”

  “Planning robbery of Paz.” Zanesh shot a look at the water pitcher.

  Dillal put his hand on the pitcher handle. “Who?”

  Zanesh pressed his lips together and shifted his gaze to Dillal’s, wincing slightly as he was forced to look at the hard metal and raw flesh around the inspector’s gleaming cybernetic eye. “Denny. And Hoda.”

  The inspector raised his right eyebrow, tilting his head very slightly. A trickle of bloody fluid oozed from below the prosthesis frame.

  Zanesh shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. “And Oso.”

  “Who do you think sent Jora and Halfennig after you?”

  Zanesh kept his eyes closed. “Oso.” He looked younger than his age and the name seemed to hurt him as he said it.

  “You thought Osolin Tchintaka sent two bent patrol ofiçes to kill you because you knew he and Denenshe Leran and Hoda Banzet had planned to rob the customers at the Paz da Sorte and that plan had gone wrong and resulted in murder. Is that correct?”