Blood Orbit_A Gattis File Novel

by K. R. Richardson

  Neme pushed him into a chair in the casino’s small employee conference room that she’d commandeered.

  She leaned over him, bracing her hands on the chair arms. “You understand what’s happening here?” she asked.

  “Not really.” Water ran from his hair and down his face—not that it mattered. His head and hearing were almost clear, but his thoughts were a jumbled mess, and he felt that he watched the whole thing from a distance.

  She rested her hip on the table. “All right. So, Eric Matheson, you may be royally fucked. You’re being detained—they call it ‘supervised, indefinite suspension’—pending review of the shooting that you were just involved in.”

  “Do I get a rep?”

  Neme chuckled ironically. “Not around here, baby blackbird. No union, no union rep. I’m familiar with these reviews, so I volunteered to explain it to you—call it my good deed for the decade. Because you were on active duty at the time and ass-deep in this whole fucking fiasco from start to finish, the usual position would be that you acted to save a fellow ofiçe and the hostages who were under immediate, deadly threat. But this one’s uglier than usual. When we’re done here, you’ll be transferred to a detention cell and held until the board decides your fate.”

  “What board? Gattis Corp or—”

  “Review board. GISA is a private firm on a corporate planet, so this doesn’t run like it does in Central System. It’s similar to a Grand Jury, but it’s all in camera. Pritchet and the GISA execs make up the board, and you might get to speak on your own behalf, or you might not. Normally your whip or someone he chooses would speak for you, but at the moment, you seem to be in no man’s land—Dillal’s not available and neither Feresintavi nor Belcourso will own you. A hell of a lot depends on who your friends are. Either way, you’re going to be waiting a while.”

  Matheson let his head sink a little lower “Well . . . I guess I am merry fucked.”

  “Maybe. If it goes against you, you’ll be charged with murder with special circumstances, remanded for trial—which’ll take about five minutes—and it’s pretty much a straight, short walk to the wall after that.”

  “It’s a capital offense?” he asked, glancing up from beneath his dripping brows.

  “If they call it aggravated murder, you bet your narrow ass it is.” She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest, and drummed her fingers on her upper arms. Probably wants a smoke. “Things got sticky when you hit that out-system asshole and used his rifle in front of all those tourists and avid viewers to shoot a guy who was trying to kill your whip—who had just embarrassed a bunch of heavies by letting some of their dirty deeds out into the light. They’ll be arguing if you were really acting within your scope as a GISA Ofiçe, or if you were working some other angle—your own, or your whip’s, or whatever sollet-brained excuse they need to charge you with Osolin Tchintaka’s murder. Usually these aren’t so . . . showy, but Central was watching when it happened, so there will be repercussions. GISA and Gattis Corp can’t take it out on Dillal, so they’ll take it out on you. There. That’s the speech. You want the formal version or is that good enough?”

  “That’ll do. Are you taking over the Paz files?”

  She reached down and flicked her own mobile off. “Yeah. That a problem?”

  “No. But you’ll have to get them from Dillal—I don’t have access to most of it—or I didn’t. He was a little nervous about leaks . . .”

  She coughed—or laughed, he couldn’t tell. “He’s always been paranoid. Some things haven’t changed.”

  Matheson raised his head. “Did you have anything to do with the leaks? Orris said you did and I—”

  “You thought so, too. All right, yeah, I dogged you guys. I got screwed by him too. But I want this case closed right, so I’m taking it.”

  “Right? What does that mean? Right for whom?”

  She bent closer, her expression narrow and hard. “Straight out, Matheson—and treasure this because you’ll never hear it again—Dillal was right and I was wrong. And beyond that, you’re going to have to swallow whatever I bring in.”

  “Won’t your solution determine whether the GISA review finds me justified or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” He closed his eyes and sighed. All for naught and I’m so tired . . .

  Nothing broke the silence for a while. Finally, Neme took a hold of his arm and made him get up and out.

  He didn’t notice if there was anyone outside, if he was escorted past mobs or just across an empty street and into a skimmer. Nothing registered at all except a chill.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Day 8 and beyond

  The bruises on Dillal’s neck looked like dark gray paint. He lay on his left side, which partially obscured the empty, metal-lined eye socket, but left the damage at the back of his skull and the burn on his right temple exposed. Dr. Andreus gave Neme a hard, appraising look that the senior detive returned full force.

  Andreus snorted. “Ten minutes. No more,” she said and marched out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Neme closed the distance to the bed and leaned her hip against the side. “Bit of a hardass, isn’t she?”

  “You should know,” Dillal replied. His voice was very low and slow. “You’re here why?”

  “Need access to your case files. The rook said you sequestered them.”

  “You’re closing.”

  “Since I opened the case, yes, I am.”

  “I can’t grant access remotely. Not at this time.”

  Neme peered at him, inspecting his injuries. “That bashing knocked your miracle offline, did it? Well, you can struggle along like the rest of us, now, can’t you?”

  “Dr. Andreus has shut the system down until my body recovers.”

  “Not worried about your brain much, is she?” Neme asked as she handed him her mobile.

  Dillal had difficulty holding the mobile where he could see it and still swipe through the permissions and hashes. “Speak with her if you like, but let us stay on topic.”

  Neme took the mobile and held it for him with an impatient snort. She waited with ill grace as Dillal unlocked his files and updated the access, then swiped through the numerous releases with decreasing speed and strength. He didn’t waste his breath to curse. When it was done, he closed his eye and breathed heavily for a minute or more.

  Neme watched him. “Tires you out, being broken.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you’ve got that isn’t in the files.”

  He opened his eye again, but it was hard to tell where he was looking—it didn’t seem to be at Neme. “Very little. Two material witnesses in secure holding will tell you most of it.”

  “Zanesh Farrazee and Hoda Banzet—I talked to them last night. It was heavy going. Their tale is that Tchintaka planned the Paz da Sorte incident as a straight robbery, but things went wrong and everyone died, including Leran, who was one of the gang. The version I got out of the Tchintaka recordings is it went pretty much the way he intended—except that those two in holding didn’t die in time. So it really wasn’t a racial thing and it really was aggravated murder from minute one. Sound right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Things get a little confusing when I start looking at the Santos information, though. Orris’s notes are useless—when they aren’t total cat shit lies.”

  “Dr. Andreus conducted the autopsy.”

  “If it’s relevant, I’ll talk to her.”

  “It is. How Santos died revealed Orris’s connivance in the Paz da Sorte case.” Dillal paused to close his eye and breathe slowly after every sentence. “Orris killed him after he was sure Santos hadn’t talked. You can extract the details from his statement and our report.”

  “How did you get on to him in the first place?”

  One corner of Dillal’s mouth twitched. “Footprints at both crime scenes.”

  “You and those damned impressions.”

  “Details . . . Matheson
also noted Orris was IOD, but was using his kit at the Paz da Sorte scene. Orris retrieved the jasso key from the drain and cleaned the spray seal off Leran’s hands.”

  She made a disgusted face. “One of your witnesses kept talking about someone, or more than one person, in the Ohbata . . .”

  “A middleman. Orris also killed her, but . . .”

  “Yeah—it’s the Ohbata. Things just . . . melt into the ground. But Orris jumped out on the sneak. Was that with your connivance?”

  “You’ll hang me for it?”

  “Me?” She chuckled. “That would be ironic, wouldn’t it?”

  Dillal didn’t reply.

  Neme looked at him for a while before she said, “No.”

  Dillal nodded a little. “Orris knew where Tchintaka was. The information had to be bought.”

  “I see.” She went quiet again, tapping her fingers on her biceps as she frowned in thought. “Was there anyone else in this that you’re not telling me about?”

  “No.”

  She stared hard at him for a while. “I’ll pretend that’s a real ‘no’ since I don’t give a razor cat’s left testicle about your family connections or who you’re protecting, so long as it doesn’t undermine the case.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Fine. And I should be able to confirm that once I’ve had a look into your files?”

  “You will.”

  “You know your witnesses didn’t want to tell me much, though they were a little more comfortable once I told them Tchintaka was dead.”

  “Is he?”

  “You were there.”

  “I was . . . distracted. Who shot him?”

  “Your boy, Matheson. I’ve seen the video—it was a hell of a shot. Did you know he was a competitor? Did you rely on that?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So you figured to sacrifice yourself to close this case. Fucking noble of you.”

  “No. I miscalculated.”

  “You got lucky, and your blue-eyed blackbird’s still in the box for it.”

  “And GISA awaits your closure to pass judgment on his action.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Then what else?”

  “State of mind.”

  “Unknown to me.”

  Neme gave a cynical snort. “Was it your order?”

  “No. He was aware of factors you aren’t.”

  “About the case or about you?”

  Dillal’s eyelid flickered and he fought sleep. “Did you wonder where the troops came from? So quickly? Why the corporation called on them and then cut GISA out? Or what happened at Camp Donetti?”

  Neme grunted and stepped away from the bed. “I’ll bear your legends and mess-hall tales in mind.”

  “What if they’re true?”

  Andreus pushed through the door and interposed herself between Dillal and Neme. “You’re done,” she said.

  Neme didn’t move. “I want to talk to you about the Santos autopsy.”

  “I have a live patient to manage.”

  “And I have an open case that could make him a dead patient.”

  The two women glared at each other until Neme stepped back. “I’ll wait.”

  “You’ll do it out of my way. It’s like a fraggin’ parade ground in here.”

  Matheson wasn’t sure how long he’d been in custody. Time without sunlight bent and moved in strange ways and he hadn’t really noticed how much he relied on his mobile until he didn’t have it anymore. His only timekeeping was by the block guard’s hourly passage. He hadn’t seen anyone else in a while—not even Neme. His thoughts chased their own tails and the silence was going to drive him nuts long before anyone put a bullet in him.

  He’d already exercised and slept as much as he could stand to—which wasn’t much considering the nightmares about mud and death and brain matter splattered red and gray on white walls . . .

  Stop it! This isn’t Camp Ejeirie . . . or Camp Donetti.

  He would never know what he had done there, so he would live—and die—with that. But shooting Tchintaka? No; the killing sickened him, but he didn’t regret doing what had to be done to save lives. Did Dillal survive? Or was I too slow? Surely this would be over by now if he’s died . . . Matheson hadn’t remembered to ask Neme and there wasn’t anyone in shouting distance.

  But now he was certain he’d done the right thing, even if some of the connections were still confusing. He bent his thoughts to the case, thinking about the past and how disparate pieces tipped one into another, from the fault line of First Settlement all the way to Dillal’s arrival at the Paz da Sorte. Maybe, as he’d said, a crime of this sort was inevitable, but the inspector’s influence had thrown all expectations out the air lock. Neme had implied that there would be political fallout, but he hadn’t heard anything about the review, and there was no indication that anything had changed since he’d been detained. He closed his eyes and built his mental landscape of the crime again, looking for the negative space that might be a picture of its own.

  He fell asleep without waking in a sweat or screaming for the first time in days.

  An odd sound disturbed him: the click of high heels on angelstone that sent a familiar cold shiver up his spine as he woke. The block guard opened the door, locked the visitor in, and stood outside. Matheson peered at his unexpected guest, but no matter how smug her expression, he wasn’t going to attack his own sister. He stayed on the bunk.

  “Eric,” she said.

  He sat up slowly. “Hello, Callista.” Not much had changed in two and a half years. She was still perfect and cold in the shades of a charcoal sketch. “Is this some ritual I’m unfamiliar with—sort of familial last rites?”

  He hoped she’d just get on with it.

  “No,” she said. “I’m here to offer you a proposition on the family’s behalf.”

  “I don’t think I’m in any position to accept or refuse a proposition,” he said. “In case you’re unclear on the circumstances, I’m here for killing a man and embarrassing a lot of Very Important People in the process. The only debate seems to be whether I’ll die in a work camp in a few months or die here in a few days.”

  She gave a sigh and shook her head. “Don’t be so dramatic. It can go that way if you like, but I think you’ll prefer the alternative.”

  He could wait her out, but why bother? “What alternative?”

  Callista took a deep breath through her nose and glanced toward the ceiling as if she needed permission from some god before she spoke. Maybe she did—maybe she communicated with their father the way Dillal interfaced with the GISA database.

  Matheson frowned at the memory, and something hard twisted in his chest. “What happened to Dillal?” he blurted. Shit. Shit, shit, shouldn’t have asked.

  Callista cast him a bemused frown. “Your whip? Gruesomely injured, but quite the hero of the moment. And you might be, also, if you take what I’m offering.”

  The hard sensation in his chest became a bubble that almost felt like panic. “What is it?”

  “You live, go back to your job, and do as we say.”

  The bubble broke, crushing like thin glass. “No.”

  “No?” She seemed honestly surprised. “Why? Isn’t this what you wanted? I admit I wasn’t at all pleased with your choice of career, but it turned out to be so much more useful than we’d imagined. It might have been better if we’d been able to place you here two years earlier, move you up the ladders sooner, arrange things in a manner more . . . tasteful. But as it is, you’ve given us a very nice bit of legend to build from. It will take a while, but this route may prove by far the best—however unusual for a Matheson. But that’s where the beauty lies. The ethnic natives will be much more supportive of an outsider who’s risked everything to save them and their grotesque tourist-trap of a planet, than a rich boy who was simply planted here by the family.”

  Matheson gaped at her. “Useful? Planted here . . . ?”

  Callista laughed—that also hadn’t chan
ged—still as falsely musical as ever. “You didn’t think this was an accident? Oh no, the family had to salvage something out of your ridiculous ambition. We’d have come to Gattis soon in any event and the chance to have a Matheson already on the ground was too good. You were sent here because we wanted you here. You’ve done very well. It was risky, but by attaching yourself to this . . . unusual inspector,” she made Dillal sound dubious, “you’ve leapt ahead and secured a very nice position from which to build.”

  The thought forming in his head was appalling. “Build to what?” he asked.

  Callista narrowed her eyes at him. “The family doesn’t compete for second place.”

  Matheson started to speak, but had to stop and swallow back the bile that rose into the back of his mouth. “Pretend I’m stupid. Tell me what you’re expecting me to do.”

  She shrugged. “Become planetary governor. Eventually. It’s years off, but that’s the only goal worth pursuing on a corporate planet. It will take quite a while, but you’ve already started on the hearts-and-minds campaign with your selfless-policeman act. Though parts of it were stunningly stupid.”

  “The Julian Company’s presence wasn’t a coincidence.” He stared at her and gripped the bunk rail to keep from jumping up, grabbing, and shaking her in fury. “Did you cause this somehow? Pay Leran to kill Venn? Have me assigned to the case?”

  Callista drew back with a scowl. “Of course not! How could you think such a thing? I liked the girl. She was really very . . . sweet. It’s a blow to lose her—and she was so young. But it’s a loss we can weather. It might even help.”

  Matheson forced his gaze from her. “You disgust me.”

  Callista scoffed and rolled her eyes in annoyance. “Be practical, Eric! It’s a tragedy, but we’ll get nowhere crying over it. Pick up your injured sensibilities and get back to business! I’m not going to let your childish emotionalism stop this from working. If I have to leave you here and cut the family’s losses, I’ll do that, but after all the investment in time, money, preparation . . . I won’t abandon Gattis. This project is worth a very great deal to the family and we’re going to get it done with or without you.”