Vigilantes

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Sevryn started up the footage twice, and each time, it collapsed. Nyquist knew this game: he’d express impatience, and Sevryn would tell him that the playback wasn’t working. He’d fix it and give it to Nyquist later.

  Then, later, Sevryn would tell him that the footage got destroyed in the machine malfunction.

  Nyquist enjoyed his sandwich, let Sevryn monkey with everything, and planned to charge the man with obstruction if anything got destroyed while Nyquist was sitting there.

  Finally, when he had finished half the sandwich, he leaned back.

  “You know,” he said, “I know a lot about security systems. I could get that working or we can just download the footage on one of my chips and I can look at it back at the precinct.”

  He wiped off his mouth and stood.

  “In fact,” he said, trying not to sound too dramatic. “Why don’t we do that? It’ll be easier.”

  Sevryn gave him a panicked look, and Nyquist tried not to smile. Clearly Sevryn didn’t know much about security systems at all. He had been trying to make it appear like he couldn’t make it work, when he actually could.

  Erasing something from the system was nearly impossible if you were new to it all.

  “I got it,” Sevryn said. “Finish your sandwich.”

  A hologram appeared on the table top, half over the remaining bits of sandwich. The entire front of the restaurant showed in the footage.

  A line went out the door.

  The four tables had well-dressed customers, cramming their mouths with sandwiches similar to the one that Nyquist was eating. The low hum of conversation almost sounded like it was live.

  The line included several uniformed police officers. None were looking directly at any of the cameras that created this three-dimensional image.

  Still, Nyquist’s stomach clenched, and he suddenly regretted eating the meal.

  He recognized about six of the dozen cops in line. Most of them were detectives, even though they were wearing their uniforms. Many detectives had started wearing uniforms after the Peyti Crisis, partly because headquarters thought a uniformed presence made the streets seem safer and partly because uniforms were durable and almost impossible to mess up.

  They also stored trace evidence as a matter of course. Most police officers thought that a good thing—it made sure their prosecutions were easier.

  But if they were the perpetrators…

  “Everything okay?” Sevryn asked.

  “Great,” Nyquist said, and hoped his response sounded genuine.

  “I still got some cheesecake,” Sevryn said.

  “I—this sandwich will be more than enough, thank you,” Nyquist said, still staring at the images moving before him. He recorded everything, in case Sevryn decided to destroy it after all.

  Nyquist swallowed hard. The sandwich was threatening to return. He still hadn’t seen any faces straight on—at least of the police—but he thought he could identify several of them.

  He hoped he was wrong.

  Then one of the cops turned, and Nyquist saw his entire face. Lucien Gaetjens. His flat nose and broad cheekbones made him readily identifiable. Nyquist had never worked with him, but had dealt with him a lot when Gaetjens was trying and failing to pass his detective exams. Gumiela had even suggested that Nyquist take him into the field and train him, and Nyquist had respectfully (he hoped) said no.

  Not because of Gaetjens, but because Nyquist had enough trouble with partners. He didn’t need to mentor someone already having problems.

  Beside him, another cop, whose face Nyquist recognized but name he didn’t know, leaned over and whispered something. Nyquist reluctantly turned on his department identification program. Pedro Federline. He was still a beat cop, who had been with the department nearly ten years.

  Which meant he either had attitude problems or he didn’t have the patience (or the smarts) to move up in the ranks. Usually, failure to move meant someone was in the wrong job.

  Although Nyquist had known several beat cops who were perfectly content where they were.

  Zhu came through the door. His suit appeared to be silk, but Nyquist couldn’t tell. Several of the cops looked at Zhu, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  A few of the cops whispered with each other, and one laughed.

  Nyquist’s heart was pounding, as if he were seeing all of this in real time.

  Zhu was staring at the menu, clearly oblivious to everything going on around him.

  The female cop had just gotten two things from the counter, one a gigantic container of soup. She turned.

  And Nyquist closed his eyes, just for a moment.

  Exactly what he had been afraid of.

  Savita Romey.

  He thought he recognized her posture and her form. He had worked with her on more than one case, flirted with her more than he liked to think about, and had gotten angry with her the morning of the detectives meeting.

  She had suggested that they torture the Peyti clones to find out what they knew. Or maybe just hurt them on general principles.

  Nyquist had moved away from her then, feeling deeply disappointed.

  Her gaze was on Zhu, and her lips thinned.

  Nyquist had seen that look before. It was Romey’s version of disgust. She hated Zhu.

  She usually used that hate to solve cases. She’d been one of the first responders to Mayor Soseki’s assassination site on Anniversary Day, and she’d done as good a job as could be expected.

  Nyquist always kept her on his rotation, because he knew she could get the job done.

  He pushed the sandwich away, watching as Zhu made his way up the line.

  Romey handed off the soup to Gaetjens. He nodded and grinned. Then Romey took the lid off her coffee and walked directly into Zhu.

  “Savita,” Nyquist whispered.

  Zhu saw her at the last minute and moved out of the way as coffee, so hot that it steamed, splattered on the floor. A few other patrons moved back, alarmed, clearly burned. They said something that Nyquist couldn’t make out.

  But he could make out what Romey said.

  Sorry, she said to Zhu in a tone that was equal parts sarcasm and intent.

  Gaetjens bumped Zhu from behind and poured the soup on him. That had to burn.

  Yeah, Gaetjens said in the same tone that Romey had used. I’m sorry, too.

  Then a third cop came in from the side and dumped some kind of liquid on Zhu.

  Oh, my, the cop said. Lookie what a mess you made.

  Nyquist did a search for that cop’s face, and found it belonged to Omar Nettles. Nyquist had never seen him before, but that wasn’t as odd as it sounded. There were thousands of police officers in the Armstrong Police Department; he couldn’t be expected to know them all.

  Zhu looked at Nettles in surprise. Nyquist was surprised as well. Nettles made it clear that this little interaction really wasn’t an accident.

  Zhu held up his hands in protest. Look, guys, I didn’t mean—

  Guys? Romey asked, waving her coffee cup around and deliberately spilling more on the floor. Do I look like a guy to you?

  And that was when Sevryn stepped in, yelling at everyone. He threw the four police officers out first. Then Zhu thanked him, which also seemed like a mistake.

  Sevryn snapped, Don’t think I don’t know who you are. I didn’t lose nobody last week, but on Anniversary Day, I lost a son, two uncles, and my Aunt Marie. So I don’t need your kind here.

  Zhu actually seemed offended. Deeply offended. That caught Nyquist’s attention. Why would a man who represented the Peyti Clones be upset by a link to Anniversary Day?

  I’m not doing anything connected with Anniversary Day, Zhu said. I’m—

  The hell you’re not. Sevryn had started yelling. Everyone in the deli was looking at Zhu, not just the cops. Zhu had taken a step backwards, as if distancing himself from Sevryn.

  Sevryn continued, louder, Those clones, they were working with them other clones, and they’re all trying to destro
y us. Now you’re out there, recruiting soulless lawyers to save their asses. You have every right to conduct your business as you see fit, and so do I. And I don’t see fit to feed the likes of you. Now get out.

  Zhu looked at the people around him as if he expected a defense. The cops just stared at him. Everyone else looked down.

  He sighed, and for a moment, Nyquist thought he was close to tears. That seemed odd.

  Then he apologized, and sloshed toward the door, leaving soggy footprints behind. People moved aside as they saw him coming.

  Shadows moved outside the windows.

  Nyquist looked at them. He would have to make the footage larger when he viewed it at the precinct, which he would do. He couldn’t just let this go, especially with Romey’s involvement. Gumiela—hell, everyone on the force—might think him biased.

  Then, to Nyquist’s surprise, Zhu stopped in front of the door. He raised his chin and squared his shoulders, like a man who had found his courage.

  He said, For the record, we’re hiring more than a hundred people. They’ll need someplace to eat. You just screwed yourself out of a lot of business, old man.

  Nyquist winced. He had just told everyone in the building that he worked nearby. And that they would have to put up with hated lawyers and the Peyti clones for a long time.

  A couple of the cops whispered to each other as Sevryn let out a bitter laugh.

  I don’t need your kinda business, he said. Have you looked around?

  Zhu pointed a finger at him, clearly not paying attention to anyone else in the place. If he had been, he would have left quickly.

  Instead, Zhu said, You pissed off a lawyer, buddy, who is hiring a bunch of other lawyers from off-Moon. Think it through.

  Nyquist’s breath caught. Zhu had been oblivious. He truly had not known the impact of his own behavior on the people around him.

  Are you threatening him? a woman asked on the footage asked just as Nyquist had wondered the same thing.

  Zhu grinned at her, and ran a hand over his soggy suit. Do I look like a man who can make a credible threat?

  And then he left.

  He was clearly visible through the window, stopping just outside, then proceeding forward—to the deli next door, according to its owner.

  Zhu had had balls. Not a lot of people sense, but balls.

  Nyquist would normally have admired that, except this time, it had probably gotten Zhu killed.

  On the footage, everyone talked about him, gesturing and shaking their heads. Sevryn had gone back to serving people.

  But the cops—the cops watched Zhu, long after he disappeared from view, at least on this small hologram.

  Nyquist let out a long sigh.

  He leaned back in the chair, and saw Sevryn watching him.

  “I’m going to need this,” Nyquist said.

  “I know.” Sevryn sounded sad.

  “Is there anything you want to tell me before I watch the rest of the footage?”

  “There’s nothing else that day,” Sevryn said.

  “But there was something this morning, wasn’t there?” Nyquist asked.

  Sevryn ran his hand on the countertop. His fingers were shaking.

  “This is my business,” he said. “My life, my livelihood, everything I am, everything I do.”

  Nyquist waited. The man was clearly deeply terrified.

  “I don’t want to get in trouble,” Sevryn said softly.

  “You won’t get in trouble from me,” Nyquist said.

  “It’s not you I’m afraid of,” Sevryn said, and then he sighed and closed his eyes, as if he’d said something wrong. He probably had. He just admitted intimidation.

  “You’re afraid that someone will figure out that you said something?” Nyquist asked.

  Sevryn kept his head down. He nodded, like a child who was being chastised.

  “You’re going to give me the footage from today,” Nyquist said. “I’ll have footage from every business within a five-block radius before the day is over. If whatever happened occurred in public, then no one will know you spoke up at all.”

  “Except the idiot next door,” Sevryn said bitterly.

  “I spoke to him too,” Nyquist said.

  Sevryn raised his head. “What’d he say?”

  “He wasn’t a fan of Zhu either. But he would take his money.”

  “He’ll take money from anyone. Just like he’ll use Moon flour to save a little, not caring about the taste.” Sevryn shook his head.

  “So,” Nyquist said, not willing to let this go. “What are you failing to tell me?”

  Sevryn ran a hand over his mouth, then spoke through his fingers—or started to. When he realized what he was doing, he let his hand drop.

  “Those three, the ones who threw food on him?”

  “Yeah,” Nyquist said, wishing he didn’t have to hear this.

  “This morning, they saw him next door.” Sevryn’s gaze met Nyquist’s. “They decided to teach him a lesson.”

  Nyquist went cold. “Is that what they said?”

  “No,” Sevryn said. “They decided he needed to empathize with victims.”

  Nyquist didn’t move.

  “They said they’d teach him how it feels to be attacked.” Sevryn’s face had gone pale. “They said they’d make it a lesson no one at S3 would ever forget.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  DERICCI’S SOURCE HAD been right. Jhena Andre was involved in this entire mess, somehow.

  Goudkins pulled her hands away from her console and stood up again.

  If Andre had enough power to order every investigator in the Alliance to ignore the Frémont clones, then she had a lot of power indeed.

  Goudkins’ heart was racing. She had to be very, very careful now. Those sideways means of investigating that she had discussed with DeRicci were probably irrelevant.

  If Andre could direct an entire investigation from wherever she was, then she would clearly monitor anyone accessing any information associated with the Frémont clones.

  Which meant that Ostaka was in trouble, no matter how careful he had been.

  Goudkins actually thought of warning him, even though he had been such an ass with her. Then she nodded once to herself. Of course, she would warn him, when she returned to the Security Office—and not before.

  She paced for a few moments, weaving in and out of the bolted-down chairs and consoles, thinking. If Andre was powerful enough to control investigations system wide, then she had the ability to monitor investigations as well.

  It didn’t matter how Goudkins approached her investigation: Andre would know about it.

  So Goudkins needed to make her investigation about Andre, not about the clones—any clones—and then weave whatever information she got together, not using some system, but using some deductive reasoning.

  She would have to hope that would be enough to get her to one of the lower-level Alliance courts that would give her secret access to internal files.

  If she needed that.

  First, she needed to see if Andre was the one pulling strings, or if she was acting in someone else’s stead.

  And that would be harder to determine than Goudkins wanted.

  But she could do it.

  She returned to her chair, and brought up a third screen. All she wanted here was Andre’s work history.

  Normally, Goudkins would have searched through bank records, but that would probably notify Andre that someone was interested in her.

  Goudkins was just going to do a “who is?” search, the kind that a reporter, a job interviewer—as DeRicci mentioned—or someone looking to promote might do.

  She had to be very, very careful.

  Her hands were trembling as she brought up Andre’s complete work history.

  Andre started in the prison system over fifty-five years ago. She had an entry-level job in the maximum security prison that housed PierLuigi Frémont in the last days of his life. Frémont managed to kill himself rather than face the punishme
nts ahead of him, which meant that everyone in that prison was investigated for collusion with Frémont.

  Eventually, a lower-level guard was charged with negligence in taking care of Frémont, and removed from the system with a serious reprimand; but oddly, no one who had been on duty when Frémont actually died was found guilty of anything, including stealing Frémont’s DNA.

  Goudkins did not linger over the investigation. She didn’t even download it for later use, worried that it was being monitored. She would look at it if she needed to, but not on this day.

  On this day, she was pretending to be interested in Andre, the person.

  Andre worked her way from an entry-level position at a difficult prison to administration at one of the prisons that housed rich humans. More of a resort than a place that punished prisoners, the prison also gave perks to those who worked there—from high-end housing to fantastic food to all sorts of exercise and entertainment options.

  That prison—and others like it—were considered rewards for employees who did fantastic work elsewhere.

  Nothing in Andre’s easily accessed files showed her to be anything but a model employee. She married, had two children, and then divorced. Her husband raised the children on Earth, insisting that she use her short vacation every year to visit them somewhere inside Earth’s solar system, and far away from any prison.

  She did not dispute that.

  Goudkins found it odd that such a detail would be in Andre’s job record, and then, as she dug deeper, she realized why.

  That file had been attached when the children were young, and it showed simply that Andre was willing to work anywhere in the Alliance because she had no “regular” ties to hold her in one place.

  As long as she got enough vacation time to see her children once a year, she was willing to work anywhere—which wasn’t a common attitude for any employee.

  The children grew, Andre’s trips inside the center of the Alliance stopped, and if she visited her adult children, there was no record of it in her work history.

  Not that there needed to be. By the time the children were grown, they would no longer be considered a factor in her employment anywhere.

  Goudkins saw no record of grandchildren, and nothing that would tie Andre anywhere.