The boy flinched and looked on the verge of throwing up or screaming. He rocked, bobbing his head until he seemed to catch a breath and swallowed hard. Then he finally looked at the inspector again, raising his head at an odd, tense angle. He forced words out. “And—and because I’m hear Oso ask Chanan Vela when’s Dohan to take Venn to Paz.”
“Are you saying that Osolin Tchintaka knew when Gil Dohan would be at the Paz da Sorte and that he would have Venn Robesh with him?”
The boy squirmed and rubbed at his tight mouth with the back of one filthy, skeletal hand. Then he blurted, “I’m say. I’m say that.” Breath shuddered out of him as if it carried a weight away with it and Zanesh took several more deep breaths, his body loosening with relief. “When they’re know I’m not tell, they’re send me here.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Dehkas—Ofiçes Jora, Halfennig. They’re take me up, send me here. By Oso’s order.”
Dillal smiled slightly and nodded to Matheson as he placed a glass of water in front of the boy. Zanesh snatched it before it could be withdrawn. He guzzled the water, letting it run over his chin and down his neck, leaving muddy tracks.
Matheson took over. “Would you recognize all three of these men on sight: Leran, Tchintaka, and Banzet?”
The unaff looked up at Matheson, frowning as if puzzled. “I’m know them all. But Denny’s left—he’s dead.”
“I know. Do you know where the other two are?”
“I’m know and I’m not.”
Dillal put a round, golden fruit on the table between the boy and himself. Zanesh stared at the thing as if afraid of it. The inspector put the point of the knife dead center on the top of the orb and pushed down. The blade plunged in and sliced until it thumped into the table top. Pink juice ran onto the table, thinned by the water and swirling across the muddy surface. It smelled of guava, but anyone would have thought it was blood from the way Zanesh recoiled.
“I shall be specific,” Dillal said. “Do you know where Osolin Tchintaka is?”
“I’m not know,” said the boy.
“Is he on Agria?”
“I’m not know where he’s at. At all.”
Dillal drew the knife out of the guava and flicked the round fruit toward the boy. Zanesh caught it, but held the fruit against the table top and shifted his wide gaze from it to the inspector.
“If I were going to kill you, it would be cleanly, not by poison—nor by abandoning you to starvation and rape in a prison camp.”
Matheson felt ill. He hadn’t thought the boy could be more rattled by Dillal, but he twitched and seemed relieved when the inspector turned his head away with a look of mild disgust. They both sat in silence while Zanesh picked up the fruit, cautiously inspected it, and then devoured it.
Matheson resumed the interrogation once the guava was no more than a sticky stain. “What about Banzet? Is he here, in Ejeirie?”
Zanesh scowled. “Hoda . . . he’s where I’m see from the fence—in contracts’ camp.”
“Do you know where he is at this moment?”
Zanesh thought about it and his expression grew wary. “Where he’s should be—I’m know that. Where he’s might be, I’m say’s more help.”
Matheson looked at Dillal and turned his head slowly back to Zanesh. He said nothing for a while and watched the dust on the boy’s forehead slowly streaking with muddy sweat. Dillal moved and Zanesh flinched. The inspector was only turning the water pitcher around and around but it seemed to unnerve Zanesh.
The boy looked back at Matheson, breathing though his clenched teeth. “Oso’s have friends, has eyes . . .” He seemed to be willing Matheson to understand something, but he wasn’t quite getting it. The boy closed his eyes and raised one hand to his shoulder again. “I’m leave today.”
Puzzled, Matheson glanced at the inspector who gave a small, somber shake of the head.
Then Dillal leaned forward and spoke softly. “Tell us where to find Banzet and you’ll go with us. I won’t let them kill you.”
It was unlikely that Banzet knew Matheson on sight, so he went with one of the local SOs to pick the man up while Dillal removed Zanesh from Camp Ejeirie.
The area outside the penal camp was large and heavily trafficked by contractees and transport crews policed by GISA Agria Corps patrols, distinguished from everyone else only by the star-and-stripe on their coverall sleeves. The ever-falling ash quickly dimmed even the vibrant orange insignia to the point of being distinguishable only at close quarters and no one noticed the presence of a tall, light-skinned stranger among them. In his coverall, breathing filter, and shields over his blue eyes, it was the first time Matheson had felt completely anonymous on Gattis. He would have liked it better if his conscience wasn’t itching. It would be too easy to continue being a bastard in a place like this, where every face was swathed in filters and rags, featureless as every other in the constant pall of cinder and dust.
He ran his hand over the reissued equipment on his belt, noting the wear on the baton and the empty loop where many of the local SOs and all of the transport crews carried additional weapons—anything from black-coated blades to cased handguns. The contractees made do with rougher knives, but Matheson saw no one other than prisoners who wasn’t obviously armed.
Matheson and his escort wound through the edges of Ejeirie and into a contract slum—there was no better word for it. The contractees lived in minimal stack units, concrete-printed rows of them. The streets that ran between the stacks were covered by sloped panels that dumped the falling ash and cinder into gutters with a constant, metallic patter. The narrow passages were muddy with effluvium of an origin too easily guessed by the stench, and the air was dense and stank of burned insulation. The doors at each end of the stack units stood slightly ajar in warped frames, letting ash and dust creep through to the interiors.
Each building was like the next: living units on top, shops and brothels run by Gattis Corporation and their contractors on the bottom, interrupted occasionally by narrow food stalls, drug houses, or bars growing in the gaps like neon-tinted fungi. The air was too hot and dry for OLED vines, so all the signs were painted directly onto the walls in rough scrawls on top of older scrawls in whatever color had been available. At the end of the blocks lay workshops and storage units—rented at exorbitant rates. Makeshift lean-tos and temporary constructions built of scavenged materials filled every niche. As Matheson and the SO started down the last block, people scattered from these shanties carrying their belongings in their arms, some barely dressed, hobbling from injury, or clearly too dazed to know where they were going.
Matheson frowned. “Why are they running?” His voice sounded muffled and tinny through the breathing filter.
“We have to burn them out of these places every week or so—fire hazard,” the SO replied. Matheson couldn’t read his expression through the eye shields and filter mask.
“So . . . you set fire to their shelters.”
“Object lesson. The buildings are safe enough in a controlled burn, and the free-riders learn to play by the rules.”
“Any of these people die in the fires?”
“Once in a while. No great loss.” The SO shrugged and continued forward. “The ’shop we want is at the end.”
Matheson was glad for the covering that hid his expression of rage—he needed the escort too badly to give in and beat the smug prick, but the desire burned like acid. He followed the SO to the end and stopped outside the sealed metal door. Fitting that the son of a machinist should go to ground in a repair workshop. “Is there another entrance?” he asked.
“Should be one on the side.”
“Guard that one. I’ll take this.”
This close, Matheson could see amused doubt in the other SO’s eye. “Sure you will.”
Matheson gave him a cold and silent stare, and waited until the SO had walked on. He half hoped someone would shiv the bastard once he was out of sight.
Matheson used his ID override on the l
ock and slipped through the doorway by the smallest possible opening. With the door closed again behind him, he removed his eye shields. The room was dim, the only light coming through dirty panes under the eaves. The effect was less like the watery light in Angra Dastrelas than it was like being under a moving cloud of insects that clicked and swarmed against the windows. He unhooked his filter to kill the sound of his own breath and crouched near the door, listening for movement. The rustling of cinders across the roof almost masked the creeping of feet over the rough floor. Matheson turned his head slightly side-to-side, trying to pinpoint the direction. Heading from the interior corner to the side door.
Matheson eased toward the side door as well, barely breathing, his footfalls as light as possible as he edged between the bulk of a cargo lift in the center of the room and racks of tools and equipment ranged along the walls. The man in the dimness brushed something that rattled. Matheson ducked and scrambled under one of the work supports, cutting off the approach to the side door. He snatched the Sun Spot from his belt and flicked the bright beam toward the sound.
The man yelped and turned, trying to escape, and ran against the lift. Matheson ran forward as the man tried to drop and squirm under the machinery or around the corner, eyes too dazzled to see.
It was an easy catch. The young man was clumsy and scared, and he went limp as Matheson grabbed his arm and hauled him back from the bulk of the lift. The side door to the workshop banged open, startling the man, who tried to spin and face the newcomer. Matheson held on and yanked him back around as he shot a look over his own shoulder.
The SO had come through the door with his baton out and the shock box up in his other hand. “Lock the door and turn on the lights,” Matheson called out. “Then stay where you are.”
“I don’t think—”
“Noted. Now do as I say!” Matheson shouted, returning his attention to the man in front of him. He heard the SO grumbling as he secured the door and walked to the light switches.
The lights came up. “Ebanez?” Matheson asked the man in front of him. This young Dreihle was a far cry from Zanesh. Typically tall and slim, but his skin and hair were dull, his features bland to the point of forgettable and, while he was an adult at nineteen, his demeanor was more like a frightened child’s. “You’re not going to give that asshole a reason to drop you, are you?”
Matheson could see momentary hope flare in the cornered man’s eyes at the use of his alias. He straightened up and looked Dreihle-wise at Matheson. “I’m not.”
Matheson nodded and pushed back his cap so his face was easier to read. “My name’s Matheson and I’m looking for Hoda Banzet.”
The Dreihle was probably the worst liar on Gattis. He blanched and said, “I’m not know him,” with his eyes wide.
Matheson ducked his chin and gave Banzet a disappointed look and a shake of the head. “Don’t fuck with me, Hoda.”
Banzet closed his eyes and sighed, his shoulders slumped in resignation. “Fairzee-mairzee. I’m caught.” He looked at Matheson again. “What you’re want?”
“I need to talk to you some place safer. About some friends of yours in Angra Dastrelas.” Banzet bridled and tried to step back, but Matheson caught his arm again. “You really don’t want to do that.”
Banzet cut his glance toward the SO lingering by the back door.
“If you run, there’s nothing I can do for you,” Matheson said. “You come with me willingly, and I can protect you at least that far. Anything else is up to you.”
Banzet shifted side to side and looked for a way out, but there was no move that didn’t put him back in Matheson’s hands or face down on the floor in the best case. He began shaking his head and seemed on the verge of tears.
Matheson returned to Camp Ejeirie with Banzet, who kept close to him and shot nervous glances at the SO who walked on his other side. How’s he survived this long?
Coveralls and other gear were left in a prep porch and the three proceeded into the administration building and down labyrinthine halls. Banzet was nearly vibrating with his anxiety the whole way.
Dillal had moved to an unused briefing room at the edge of the camp compound. The room seemed more empty for having a single table and chair than it would have without any furniture at all. The inspector dismissed the accompanying SO while Matheson closed and locked the door inside.
Zanesh huddled in the farthest corner with his forehead pressed to his knees. He was clean, dressed in a thin singlet and trousers that didn’t hide his too-prominent bones, and Matheson only recognized the boy by the position of extensive, oozing scabs covering his upper arm where the remains of his old tattoos had been carved away completely. Zanesh didn’t respond in any way to Banzet’s arrival, and Banzet seemed not to know him, his gaze traveling over the boy without a pause. Banzet stopped in his tracks at sight of Dillal.
The inspector stood at the short end of the table—which was laden with a half-dozen drinking pods of water—and looked the young man over. Dillal tilted his head and Banzet lowered his, no longer meeting anyone’s eye.
“I’m Inspector Dillal. My assistant, SO Matheson,” the inspector said, making a small indicative nod. His speech sounded more Dreihleen than usual. “You’re Hoda Banzet, heh?”
Banzet nodded.
“Where you’re from?” Dillal sounded conversational, casual at least, if not quite friendly.
“Nort’koot.” Northcut. Hell of an accent. “I’m come to Angra . . . eight, nine months gone.”
“Good.” Dillal handed the man a pod of water. “Drink this.”
Banzet looked at the container with suspicion. “Will’t kill me?”
“No. But we’re have much to say, you and I.”
Banzet toyed with the water pod a moment, then opened it and took a small sip. He rinsed his mouth and spat the water into his free hand. He looked at it and wiped the moisture onto the hem of his shirt. The smear he left behind was gritty black. “Z’like digging in mines, here. Z’dark, filthy . . .” He drank half the remaining water before he nodded and looked sideways at Matheson.
“Just answer our questions,” Matheson said, “and you’ll be fine.”
Banzet didn’t seem to believe anything was going to be fine; his face was slack in despair and he barely looked up as Dillal told him to take a seat. There was only one chair—set at the long edge of the table but turned to face Dillal at the end. Banzet didn’t move the chair, but slumped into it as it was. If he turned his head he could see Zanesh in the corner, but that meant turning away from Dillal. Matheson moved to stay closer to the door, putting himself just inside Banzet’s peripheral vision. There was no place Banzet could look and see them all at once without rising from the chair, which only made him jumpier.
“Where’s Osolin Tchintaka?” Dillal asked.
“What? I’m not know,” Banzet replied, running his fingers around the bulge of the water pod.
Dillal’s lips twitched. “You’re know Denenshe Leran.”
Banzet frowned at Dillal’s shoes and raised one shoulder in a defensive half-shrug. “I’m meet him.”
“More than that. You’re with him when he’s left.”
Banzet looked ill and closed his eyes, gagging a little, then swallowing hard. Matheson tried not to wince in sympathy while he stayed silent and out of the way.
“Why you were there?” Dillal asked.
“For money.”
Dillal smiled and shook his head. “You’re not need it. Your family’s good business in Northcut.”
“Z’not for me.”
“Five nights past in Dreihleat Ang’Das, sixteen people’re killed in a jasso called Paz da Sorte—the Peace of Luck—is ironic for a place’s neither peace nor luck. One of these Dreihleen’s a beautiful girl. Venn Robesh. Only seventeen. She’s die in a terrible way. And Denny Leran’s found beside her. You’re tell me how this’s happen.”
The pod dropped from Banzet’s hand and bounced on the floor, spewing water, as the young man put his fac
e in his hands. He doubled forward, shoulders shaking convulsively, until his elbows were locked to his chest. Gritty gray tears dripped from between his fingers and ran down his wrists in dark tracks, and he pulled in a long, shuddering breath.
Dillal rested his fingers on Banzet’s shoulder. The young man shivered and pushed his wet hands into his own hair. His eyes were wide with horror. “He’s killed her. Denny. Her pretty face . . . And we’re—and we’re—He’s kill me next.”
“Not Denny Leran.”
“Oso. Oso . . .” Banzet breathed in hysterical snorts as he twisted in the chair and pinned his gaze to the floor. “He’s say we’re have to—have to wait. But there’s a boy. A boy’s know what we’re have done. And the boy. He’s left.”
In the corner, Zanesh stirred and hugged his arms tighter around his legs, but didn’t look up. Matheson glanced at Dillal but the inspector shook his head in silence.
Banzet continued, “Norenin’s say dehkas’re come. Oso’s say I’m wait—wait. But I’m run!” He raised his head at last, muddy tracks on his face and hands, and his eyes stared at nothing. “He’s . . . kill me.”
Dillal stepped back to the edge of the table again, unruffled, though Matheson thought he looked pale. “Why?”
“Because I’m know!”
“No one else?”
“The boy—but he’s . . . left.”
“Norenin’s not know, or Vela?”
“Only we.”
“You and Denny . . .”
“And Oso.”
“No one else?”
Banzet shook his head and bared his teeth. “There’s none but us!”
“But you’re here and Denny Leran’s dead. Who’ll harm you?”
“Oso.”
Dillal’s silence seemed to prompt him better than speech. “Osolin Tchintaka,” Banzet said.
“What happened at Paz, we believe that was a mistake,” Matheson started and Banzet jumped as if he’d forgotten anyone but Dillal and himself existed, “—not something any of you intended. You think Tchintaka is capable of cold blooded murder?”
Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel Page 36
