by Joe Ollinger
Alert, I turn quickly, ready to pursue. “Let’s go.”
But Kearns keeps hold of my hands and yanks me to a stop. “Easy,” he says. “We don’t want to look too eager, right? Finish the dance.”
Did the paper-pushing economist just set me straight on detective technique? He’s right, and I know it, so I just nod and keep dancing, over the field of jellyfish, toward the far side of the ballroom. When the band finishes the song and transitions to another, we take the opportunity to stop and walk off. As we step back onto the pink carpet, leaving the glowing floor, Kearns gives me a little bow, a clever little smirk on his face. I just shake my head.
I still don’t see Greenman. Maybe I’m too short. Kearns leads the way, waving hello to a couple of people who don’t seem to know him. As we near the filigreed stone wall, I finally see the Chairman approaching, greeting guests with a warm smile, as a tall, beefy bodyguard in a black suit and dark tactical glasses follows him.
“Looks like this is a good place to stop,” I whisper. “Let him come to us.”
“Agreed.”
We stand there for a minute or so, awkward. “Don’t look so stiff, Kearns,” I tell him, aware that I’m not following my own advice.
“Brady. Call me Brady.”
“Brady. Relax.”
“You relax,” he shoots back. After a pause, he asks, “So how long have you been a Collections Agent?”
My entire adult life, basically. “Five years now.”
“And already with a solo field assignment. Impressive.”
“I work hard, and I’m good at it,” I admit.
“You like it?”
“It’s work.” The truth is that I do enjoy the chase, the game of it, but some of the things I see get to me sometimes. I guess I appreciate those parts too for reminding me of why I want to leave.
“Why did you join?” he asks, starting to loosen up again. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I joined because I want to leave Brink, and Collections was one of the few jobs I could step into right out of school and start earning. And the training is generalizable to law enforcement work, which will hopefully help me get into a career on whatever world I end up on.”
“Hmm,” he says, frowning with a bit of surprise. “Pragmatic. I’d have figured you for a hardcore law and order type, as passionate about the job as you are.”
“I couldn’t give half a damn for rogue currency, honestly,” I reply, a bit annoyed. I’ve never thought of myself as “passionate” about my work. “You know, you haven’t even told me what you used to do for SCAPE.”
“I was Junior Vice President of Pricing and Market Adjustment.”
“What is that?”
“Basically an economist, advising the SCAPE board in methods for maximizing profit resulting from supply-side differentials in commodity availability and currency value.”
“I still don’t know what that means,” I reply, a little annoyed. “Why did you leave?”
“I saw a problem here on Brink,” he says, unemotional but earnest, “one that I thought could be fixed, with some time and hard work.”
“So you were born on another planet.”
“Darien,” he says. “You’ve heard of it?”
The second most recent planet to be colonized by human beings, Darien orbits a star far astray of the normal channels of interstellar travel. It’s the most remote of any colony with a sizable human presence. From what I’ve heard and read about it, it’s a cool, green, and pleasant world, with rolling hills they call “bens,” deep freshwater fjords called “lochs,” and a bounty of interesting and benign plants and animals.
“You left Darien for Brink?” I scoff. “Bet you’re regretting that now.”
“Not yet, but we’ll see,” he says with a beleaguered skepticism that tells me my comment has struck too close to home. “I came here to make a difference, to really do something with my skills.”
I back off a bit. “I didn’t have the former SCAPE exec pegged as a do-gooder.” Growing more curious, I ask, “How did you afford to come here?”
“I came on a heavy freighter, working for the company through the four-year trip. An economist halfway between worlds is actually quite useful to the company, cuts down on communications lag.”
“Hmm.” Before I can say anything else, I notice Aaron Greenman approaching and remind myself to be cool.
He sees us and strolls over with that warm, easy smile of his. “Brady Kearns and Agent Ware! I’m so thrilled you could make it.”
“Dare,” I correct him politely.
“Dare,” he says, “terribly sorry.”
“Thanks so much for having us, Mister Greenman,” Kearns says with an eagerness that might be genuine. “You’re an incredible host.”
“You flatter me, Brady. Tell me, have you had the cheese?” Before either of us can answer, he shouts out to one of the waiters, “Garcon! Here, please!”
The waiter approaches, a short, thin man with dark skin and a couple of noticeable blotches of foundation makeup that probably cover hypocalcemia spots. He stiffly holds out the white tray he’s carrying. On it are small, white cubes with little toothpicks sticking out of them, tied with decorative bows. Kearns and I each take one and eat it, then put the toothpicks in the little waste cup on the tray. Savory flavor floods my mouth: rich, tangy, salty, creamy. Some vaguely spoiled flavor that’s pleasant for reasons I can’t quite identify. Again, I think it would be impossible to describe adequately to someone who hasn’t had it. The experience is overwhelming, and for a few seconds, I can’t help but be distracted by it.
Greenman watches me with what I assume to be amusement. “It’s real white cheddar,” he says, “from cows right here on the ranch.”
“That’s a rare treat,” Kearns says.
The rich man beams with pride. “Any progress on your respective investigations?”
“Actually,” I step in, before Kearns can say anything, “I’d like a quick word about that.”
“Oh? Anything I can do?”
“I need info on a SCAPE employee. A pilot named Frank Soto.”
Greenman bristles. “That’s a fairly big request. We have a confidentiality policy, you know.”
Is he just trying to blow me off, or is he hiding something? He doesn’t give a damn about the privacy of his employees, and I think he knows that I know that.
“Mr. Greenman,” Brady interjects, “Agent Dare thinks she might be close to something.”
Greenman raises an eyebrow. “I’ll talk to legal and see what I can do,” he says quickly, brushing past us and moving on. “If you’ll excuse me.” His big bodyguard trails behind him as he goes back to greeting guests.
“This was a waste of time,” Brady says, not surprised.
“Maybe,” I respond, realizing with some dismay that I’m now thinking of the auditor by his first name. “I got to eat cheese, anyway.”
I can’t help but stew silently on the ride home. The stars are a bright mist in the clear night sky above the long, straight road back to town, through the darkened and silent desert wilderness. They say more individual stars are visible on Brink than any other known habitable planet. I wonder if Earth’s skies are darker, if Farraway’s are less clear.
After several minutes thinking in circles, something that’s been bothering me bubbles to the surface. “Tell me something, Brady. What do you get out of this?”
“I’ve . . . I’ve already told you.”
“Right, but I’m not sure I see it. Your job is to explain calcium shortfalls. But aren’t those shortfalls huge? Like millions of units a year?”
“On that scale, yes.”
“You really think a weevil leak could explain them?”
“I don’t expect to find a single explanation.”
“Hmm.” I consider that for a second, doing some rough math in my head. “There would have to be hundreds of people processing black market cur
rency with chalk weevils for the numbers to add up.”
“Or just a few doing it on a large scale. Or one person, even.”
“What other leads have you checked into?”
“Let’s see . . . I’ve inspected the Commerce Board processing center, had random currency lab tested for purity, checked the weigh-ins and weigh-outs when cash goes to the banks.”
Those are the first checks I’d run, if I had his job. See if there are systemic calcium leaks at processing, see if there’s a problem with impure cash tabs, check for theft at the bank level. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmm.”
After a minute or two of silence, he asks, “Is there a next step?”
“I’m going to pay a visit to that lawyer tomorrow. I’ll let you know if it turns up anything.”
He gives a slight nod, saying nothing further. As we ride the rest of the way in silence, I stare out my window watching the nearing lights of Oasis City wash into the sky overhead, diminishing the brightness of the dimmer stars, leaving only the strong ones shining against a field of dark purple-gray. Contrast may not equal clarity, but once one goes, the other tends to go with it.
8
It’s another hot day, even though it’s cloudier than normal, with wisps of gray drifting over the tall skyscrapers of downtown mixing with smoke and steam from the industrial zones. The air blows thick and warm over me as I ride across the city to a commercial district on the west side of downtown called Rumville, a triangular cluster of high, robust buildings supposedly modeled after the high-end arcologies on Earth but obviously short of their comfort and quality. The hydro-farming floors at the tops are rough with greenery exposed to the sunlight. In the shadows below them are steel-and-glass luxury residences and office space facing outward, while businesses like chemical plants and finance companies are hidden in the interior among the resource management facilities. The arcologies are supposed to be self-sustaining, like a starship, but everyone knows they draw huge amounts of water and put out huge amounts of waste.
I arrive at the ParkChung Building, an immense, rectangular structure which of course occupies the whole block between Park Street and Chung Street. It’s bordered on the north and south by 8th and 9th, but I guess “8th9th” doesn’t have the same ring to it. Pulling into the parking atrium, I surrender control of my ride to the auto-valet, dismount, and head into the lobby, a broad, crescent-shaped room with a high ceiling. The wall opposite the huge window that faces the street is covered with exotic plants, top to bottom, except for the spaces occupied by little shops. A drug store, a mailing service, a food kiosk. I walk past the tiered fountain in the center of the floor and approach one of the security guards at the reception desk.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m looking for the office of Attorney Troy Sales?” Why did my inflection go up at the end of that sentence? Strange how not being in uniform makes me less assertive. I’m in business slacks and an old-style green plaid button-down, but my shoes are durable casual kickarounds, and my hair’s been blown around in the wind.
The receptionist reads from the monitor in front of her. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m a Collections Agent.”
She glances at her monitor again and sees that the scanners have picked up my ID from my phone. It’s probably also been confirmed via facial scans from one of the security cameras no doubt hidden liberally throughout the lobby. “So you are. Welcome, Agent Dare. I’ll let them know you’re on your way up, but I can’t guarantee that anyone is in.” She punches in clearance. “Lift six,” she says, pointing the way to a bank of elevators recessed against the broad back wall between two of the larger storefronts. “It’ll take you to floor thirty-seven. The unit number is 3726.”
I nod thanks. As I cross the floor, I glance over my shoulder, getting the strange feeling that I’m being followed, but there are only a few people in the lobby, and none of them seem to be tailing me.
The doors open for me as I approach, and I take the elevator to thirty-seven. I step out into a corridor as wide as a street encircling the column of utilities channels in the arcology’s center. The light’s all artificial here, and the floors, ceilings, and walls are bare, worn-down cement, nothing like the sanitized facade of the lobby. The vague groans and grinds of machinery blend together, not fully muffled by the walls, drowning out the hum of a forklift passing by with a pallet of agricultural supplements. Utilitarian signs in Korean and French and simplified Chinese and English hang above the doors of the businesses, which include everything from shipping rights resales to low-atmosphere packing solutions.
I get my bearings and head toward 3726. Passing a dentist’s office so spare and shoddy looking that it must be a black-market tooth buyer, I make a mental note to come back here at some point and see if there’s a bust to be made. Who would come to a dentist here, anyhow?
The Law Offices of Troy Sales is a single door with simple, gold-tinted lettering in English, set between a shrimp hatchery and a fly-by-night insurance broker. I try the control, and it opens, letting me into a tiny lobby with four chairs and an opaqued reception window. I hit the call button, and a second later the window goes transparent and a young female receptionist greets me, a bored look in her not particularly thoughtful eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“I need to speak with Troy Sales.” My voice is slightly more forceful this time.
“Do you have an appointment?”
I hold back a frustrated sigh. “I’m a Collections Agent. Tell him it’s urgent.”
She pretends to check a monitor. “Mr. Sales is not available today. Would you like to leave your contact info?”
“One of his clients is dead. Get his ass out here.”
She looks at me for a second. “One moment.”
The glass opaques again, and after a minute or two, the door next to it slides open. A thin-haired middle-aged man with a weathered face and a slightly-too-loose suit leans out, grinning at me. “Hello,” he says, “Troy Sales, what can I do for you?”
I can’t place his accent, but I’m fairly sure it’s from off-world somewhere. “Mr. Sales, do you represent a Dr. Marvin Chan?”
“In certain matters,” he responds, cautious. “Why?”
“He’s dead.”
His grin falls as that sinks in. He didn’t know. “You’re sure?”
“Guarantee it.”
He bites his lower lip, deciding what to do. “Come on back.” He leads me through the door, down a short hallway, and through another door into his office, a small, square room with a couple of framed degrees on the wall and not much else. He got his schooling at online colleges, both of which are popular among interstellar travelers. Must have come from off-world, got his credentials en route. He sits down behind the desk, which looks like it’s made from real wood, and I take a seat in one of the two chairs on the opposite side.
“How do you know Marvin Chan is dead?” he asks.
“Because,” I answer, “I killed him.” His brow creases with barely perceptible surprise, and I can tell that I’ve got his full attention. “It hasn’t been made public yet, so as not interfere with an ongoing investigation, so keep it quiet.”
He nods. “When did it happen? How?”
His interest in this interests me. “I shot him dead. He tried to pull, I was quicker.”
“There must have been some misunderstanding,” he says, his tone dead, his face deliberately blank. “Mr. Chan is not the sort of man to attack a law enforcement officer.”
“He was trafficking contraband.”
Now his eyebrows raise. He leans back, making a show of his surprise. “You’re sure?”
This little game is a waste of time. “He tried to bribe me, too. But don’t worry, Mr. Sales. You’re not in trouble here.”
“That’s a relief.”
“I do want to know about a three thousand dollar payment he ma
de to you earlier this year.”
He blinks. “Attorney’s fees.”
“For what?”
He tenses up again, maintaining eye contact, his tone flat. “Advice on a medical malpractice issue. That’s all I can tell you, at least until you answer a few questions for me.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“How did you discover my client’s wrongdoing? Alleged wrong-doing, that is.”
I remember Jessi Rodgers, wheezing and out of breath, picking strawberries at that hydro farm, and I have to remind myself not to raise my voice. “He was poisoning people. One of his victims tipped me off.”
“Not anonymous, then.”
Why does he want to know? He’s not hiding his curiosity at how I caught Chan, but the reason he wants that information eludes me. “No,” I answer, unable to think up some clever tact to take. I’m not a subtle person, and I’m bad at this kind of intrigue. “Why does it matter?”
“My client was afraid of being set up some day. This victim, who did he tell?”
“Me,” I answer. “And it was a she.”
“Is there a record of it? Video?”
“Of the tip? No.”
His mouth moves just slightly as he glances away, and I can tell that he thinks I’m lying to him. “I’m afraid that’s all the time I have right now, miss . . . ”
“Agent,” I correct him, trying to wrest the upper hand back, “Dare. And I’m not finished here.”
But he just gets up, steps past me, and opens the door. He stands aside it, refusing to budge. “I’m sorry, Miss Dare. For anything more, I’m afraid you’ll have to come back with a warrant.”
I stare at him for a second, fuming silently, knowing he’s right. Defeated, I stand and walk past him, and he returns my icy glare with a blank, polite smile. Seething and annoyed, I exit through the lobby. The door opens on my way out of the office, and I nearly bump into a courier who’s carrying a box through the door. He nods to me and slips past.
As I walk back toward the bank of elevators, my thoughts brooding on Troy Sales’s suspicious behavior, something seems wrong for some reason I can’t pinpoint. I stop and turn around. The courier is coming out of Sales’s office, walking at a brisk pace toward the elevators.