by John Appel
That course certainly possessed the brutal elegance of simplicity, and it would definitely put an end to the fighting. Let Ruhindi fault her for that. “Inspector Nidal,” she called over her shoulder. Nidal acknowledged. “As soon as the crowd-control bots are in position, have them saturate the area with tangler rounds. Target everyone inside the zone except for Commonwealth personnel. I mean everyone. Is that clear?”
“That’s hardly a better solution, Commissioner!” Ruhindi hissed at her. “You can’t do this.”
“You can take that up with the High Commissioner, ma’am.” She nodded at Imoke before resuming her position beside Nidal, as the watch commander gave orders to her automated systems specialist. On her left, Toiwa heard Valverdes muttering annotations to the record for the inquiry that Toiwa no doubt had in her future. She watched the screens, seeing the bot’s icons flip from amber to green as they reached their positions. “Fire,” she ordered in a clear, ringing voice as the final icon changed color.
Above the mob, eight robots aimed the broad mouths of their tangler guns down at the roiling crowd. Even over the muted audio Toiwa heard the splatsplatsplat as sticky projectiles rained down across the combatants, starting at the outskirts of the crowd and then, circling, working their way towards the middle. Balls of nano-motile adhesive, the tangler rounds burst just before impacting their targets, covering them and any nearby surfaces in blobs of gummy goo. These blobs flowed together even as they moved clear of nostrils, mouths, eyes, and other orifices. Within seconds the goo stiffened, immobilizing anyone caught within.
Thirty seconds later the barrage was over, and so was the riot. One Worlders, counter-protestors and innocent bystanders alike stood, knelt, or lay locked in place. Here and there Toiwa saw constables unlucky enough to be caught in the spillover. They had her sympathies; she’d experienced that indignity herself once as a rookie, after being called up to clear out a block party that got out of hand.
Well, she could handle a little grumbling from the beat officers. She suspected they’d appreciate decisive action that spared them having to wade in and subdue the belligerents by hand, after they’d thought about it. She had when she’d been in their shoes, at any rate.
Toiwa turned back to the governor’s window. “The riot is now contained, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Commissioner,” Ruhindi answered, but there was no warmth in her voice. “I’ll expect a full briefing about this incident this evening, along with an update on the assassination investigation.”
“Absolutely, ma’am.” The window blanked and Toiwa waved it closed. She turned to Imoke as Nidal and Tábara between them began coordinating the work of extracting those caught in the tangler goo, beginning with the injured. She gave the sergeant an appraising look. “Not many Detective Sergeants would put themselves in the middle of a spat between a couple of heads,” she said.
He grinned. “I have been told many times that I’m not properly mindful of my station.”
Toiwa found herself smiling back, if briefly. “It was a good call.” She tilted her head towards the video wall. “It’s still a mess, but a manageable one, now.”
Imoke’s grin widened to a full smile, and she noted the laugh lines. “But not my mess to clear up, fortunately,” he said with a chuckle.
Toiwa sighed. She dismissed the detective with a wave and turned to Valverdes. “I’ll need the paperwork for Karungi’s dismissal ready as quickly as you can manage, Kala, but notify Detention to prep for a mass arrest first.” Her aide nodded from zer workstation, AR windows popping open even as ze moved. Toiwa gave her attention to Nidal. “All right, Inspector, let’s sort these people into their proper bins.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Noo
Councilor Walla’s Office, Ileri Station,
Forward Ring
Walla’s office was decorated in what Noo dubbed ‘Intellectual of the People Retro’ style. Images of the councilor meeting with scientists and engineers competed for wall space with shots of her among crowds of constituents, browsing the ring’s market, or watching concerts in Pei Park. The furnishings were definitely all station-fabbed: all bright, tough synthetics built to withstand assault by a full creche’s worth of children. Or, perhaps, for barricading the office against a restless mob.
The councilor actually came out from behind her desk to greet Fari and offer her condolences, though she retreated behind it immediately afterwards. Her assistant set a fresh pot of coffee on a low side table between the visitor’s chairs and exited, closing the door behind her. Walla looked first at Fari, then at Noo, then back to Fari again before asking, “Why have you young ladies come to visit me in this dark hour?”
Noo fought down the urge to laugh. Walla was scarcely four years her senior, an utterly insignificant distance at their ages. She’s let her hair go gray, she realized. Playing the venerable elder card, that’s for sure.
Fari, accustomed to dealing with elders, and de-sensitized to it by her close contact with Noo, kept her cool. She stuck to the play they’d hashed out on the way over. “We are concerned about you, Councilor.”
Walla looked puzzled. “Whatever for? Mother of the Leap, child, your brother is dead.” The councilor shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I would think you and your auntie here would be dogging the Constabulary or knocking on doors yourselves to find who did it.”
“We have been,” Fari replied in her most earnest, serious voice. “And in the course of our inquiries, we’ve come to believe you might be a target yourself.”
The posture change was subtle, but Noo, watching for it, caught the sudden stiffening in Walla’s muscles as she straightened ever so slightly in her seat, hands tensing on the chair’s arms, like a racer in the blocks poised to spring forth. “I don’t understand,” Walla said, a hint of tension creeping into her voice. “Why would someone want to attack me?”
“We don’t know,” Noo said, taking up the thread. Walla’s head swiveled to face her. “But we’ve learned you were to be at last night’s meeting and are concerned that perhaps the assassin intended you die along with the others.”
This did nothing to relieve Walla’s tension, but that was the point, after all. Find the button and press. Walla leaned back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, and stared at the pair with narrowed eyes. “I don’t see how that’s possible, since I had no plans to meet with Minister Ita last night. You can check my schedule.”
They had checked Walla’s public schedule, of course, or rather an agency analyst had while they were in transit. “Your schedule shows you were attending a private engagement yesterday evening,” Fari said evenly. “We understand that at least part of that time was to be spent with Minister Ita.”
“Your understanding is incorrect,” Walla said.
“Mazlan,” Noo said in a soft tone, using the councilor’s given name, drawing her eyes back to Noo. The firm had done work for Walla over the years, and Noo traded on that familiarity. “As you say, Fathya’s grandson is dead. You’ve been a player on-station as long as she and I. Do you really think we would stint on any possible means to ferret out every conceivable lead?” It was a fine line she trod, with words that could signal either threat or concern. Which way would the quarry move?
The councilor uncoiled slightly, settling back into her chair and folding her hands in her lap. Her expression, though, remained hard as a pressure bulkhead. The silence stretched on for several seconds before she responded. “How did you come by this information?” Her voice carried not a hint of warmth.
“Our technical analysts have been working nonstop on this since last night,” Fari said, which was true enough. “We’ve ascertained you were on Second Landing Club’s guest list for the critical period.” This was of course also true, if unconnected from her previous statement.
Since the councilor was certainly recording the interview and might run voice-stress analysis or some other forensics against the recording, they’d agreed to stick to facts as much as possible while sti
ll shielding their arrangement with Loh.
Behind her desk, Walla smacked her teeth. “Fathya wouldn’t breach a privacy seal like that.” She jabbed one finger, spear-like, at Noo. “You certainly would, though. Or”—she smiled, her voice taking on a false sweetness—“did you fuck one of the staff for it?”
Think you’re going to shake me, wrapper? Tempting as it was to say “Yes”, she stuck with misdirection. “Our young associate Haissani is a wizard system cracker,” she said, continuing the factual-but-irrelevant line of patter.
Fari allowed the two older women to continue their stare-down for several more seconds before cutting in. “You were planning to visit the club last night, and to see the minister?” she asked, the picture of calm professionalism.
Walla cocked her head at Fari. “It’s not something I’m at liberty to discuss. Sensitive government issues are involved.”
“That’s curious,” Fari said, her own head tilting. “Something involving the Commonwealth vote, perhaps?”
“I cannot discuss it,” Walla said flatly.
“I see.” Fari hooked one ankle over her knee and leaned forward. “Whatever came up to prevent you from attending such an important meeting must have been significant.”
The councilor’s eyes flicked aside for a moment. “It was a family issue,” she said. “Rather private.” She glared at Noo. “Privacy which I hope you will respect.”
Fari’s response was smoother than a shot of Old Whistler rum. “I hope the situation is cleared up without undue complication. I would hate for another family to be in distress today.”
“No, no, it was all settled last night,” Walla said with a touch of haste. She paused. “I’m sure you and your grandmother must be reeling.”
Fari dropped her foot to the floor, straightening in her chair. “We find work the best therapy.”
“I would be honored if I could attend the funeral,” Walla said.
Fari nodded. “Grandmother would be pleased,” she replied. “I’ll make sure you’re notified once the time is set.”
“It’s not sorted, yet?”
Fari shook her head. “The Constabulary hasn’t released his body yet. We hope they will in time for Maghrib.”
After another round of expressions of mutual sympathy, they allowed Walla to chivvy them out of her office. At the doorway to the outer office, though, Noo turned. “I wonder, Councilor, what you think of the proposal to join the Commonwealth? Since you were to meet with the Commonwealth Consul last night.”
Walla was too practiced a politician to freeze, but Noo caught another slight hesitation before the other woman answered. “I will defer to the will of the people on that,” she said. “I think, on the whole, a healthy relationship with the Commonwealth that respects Ileri’s traditions and standing is the best course,” she said. Her response was smooth, practiced, a feed-nugget for media—and voter—consumption, but didn’t commit her one way or the other. “It is my hope that these tragic events don’t jeopardize that relationship, regardless of the referendum’s outcome.”
Nodding, Noo allowed herself to be guided out. The pair made their farewells and, wordlessly, made a beeline for the nearest transit stop. Once settled into their car they snapped a privacy field into place.
“She’s lying about why she didn’t go,” Fari said without preamble.
“Caught that, did you? Good.” Noo instructed the car to take them to the south ring, back to the firm’s office. “That bit about government matters, hmm, that might be real. Your grandmother might have a hook on that. But in a Fingers-run venue? That doesn’t scan true.”
“Agreed.” Fari flipped through her own AR fields. “How well known is Second Landing for being a Fingers place?”
Noo tapped her lips. “It’s not like they have a sign over the door, but any serious player on-station would know. The Consul’s people would have known for sure.”
“Is Walla getting flash from them?”
“The Fingers? Not that I know of, or nothing significant. She’s bought and paid for by the big family concerns, mainly the consortium that runs the outer-system station.” Noo frowned; Fari’s father had died in an accident building that station, but the mention didn’t seem to disturb the younger woman. “That might be why she was supposed to attend, to represent some of the commercial families who weren’t there.” Three of the victims represented commercial concerns, family-run enterprises. She called up the list again. “Lim, they’re biotech wetware, the Parma do environmental systems. Anwar, huh. They do a lot of provisioning for New Arm colonies, mixed manufacturing.”
“That’s an odd bunch,” Fari said, flipping through her own AR windows as the car whizzed along through the transit tubes. “But it makes a sort of sense. If the referendum passes, markets are going to shift.”
“Maybe.” Fatigue, which had lurked for the last few hours like a caffeine addict waiting for the coffee shop to open, ambushed her at last. Noo closed her eyes and slumped in her seat. Her body might be hurtling through the bowels of the station, but she’d run out of energy to keep her own momentum up for the moment. The empty spot she’d been able to ignore since Daniel showed her Saed’s body abruptly clamored for attention, riding the coattails of her exhaustion, trying to draw her down into the desolation of sorrow. She gasped at the onslaught, caught herself, and jammed her fists into her eyes, trying to drive it down with pain of another sort.
Fari swept her AR windows aside and looked hard at Noo, her own face drawn. “Are you all right, Auntie?”
“No, girl. Not hardly.” Noo sucked in a breath, held it, blew it out. Then again. The emptiness retreated, just a bit, and she whispered a prayer: I salute Oshoshi, master of himself, wise one who gives blessings...
No presence filled her; none had for decades. But she said the words anyway, and felt a bit control return. She opened her eyes and saw Fari across from her, now crying silently. She reached forward and took the younger woman’s hands, which gripped hers with fierce strength. “I’m not all right, but the hunt doesn’t stop for tears. So, on I go.” She leaned forward and Fari did the same, until their foreheads touched. “And you?”
The younger woman sniffed once. “As you say. We go on.” She leaned back and slipped one hand free, rubbing the back against her eyes to clear them. “But it hurts, Auntie. It hurts so much.”
“It do, child. That it do.” Noo found herself slipping into her own mother’s cant, a sure sign of distress, or exhaustion, or both. She gave Fari’s hand a squeeze and sat back but kept hold. “But we find the one that did our boy, yes?”
“Inshallah,” Fari said.
Noo tightened her grip. “Then we make ourselves His instruments.”
Toiwa
Commissioner’s Office, Constabulary Headquarters, Ileri Station, Forward Ring
Valverdes’ head popped into Toiwa’s workspace, displacing a window showing the latest collection of witness statements from the assassination case—at the present, interviews with the victims’ next of kin. “Commissioner? Minister Miguna is calling. He’s rather insistent.”
Toiwa stifled a groan; the last thing she needed was another government busybody. But refusing to take the Treasury Minister’s call wasn’t an option, at least not without another riot as an excuse. “Thank you, Kala. Is the documentation for Karungi’s dismissal in order?”
“Just waiting for Inspector Nidal to sign off on her attestation. She’s reviewing it now.”
“Very good. Let Miguna know I’ll be right with him and put him in my queue.” Valverdes’ disembodied head nodded, and the AR window winked out.
Toiwa waved down the fields she’d been working in, poured herself a glass of water, and flipped open a mirror field to check her appearance. Finding nothing amiss, she squared her shoulders and waved the new window open. “Minister Miguna, good afternoon. My apologies for keeping you waiting.” She fixed on her ‘professionally helpful neutral’ face.
Ajax Miguna had parlayed his leadership of the
One World party into a sizable chunk of the vote in the last election, and thus secured his current position as Treasury Minister. Toiwa hadn’t met him in person but had seen him at campaign events during her last posting, and he’d been a steady feature on the news feeds even before the election. He was a big man with the symmetrical features, glowing golden-brown skin, and slicked-back hair of a media drama star, and, she had to admit, the charisma to match. His public persona featured a lot of bombast and expansive statements, often running right up to the edge of truth, beyond which the Ministry of Information’s fact checkers would begin assessing penalties. All this combined to give Toiwa a distinctly uneasy feeling whenever she listened to him. She wondered how he’d present himself to her in a private meeting.
“Commissioner!” he barked. “You’re detaining members of my party illegally, and I demand you release them immediately.”
Straight to domineering asshole it is, then. Toiwa locked her expression in place. “I’m not sure what supporters you mean, Minister. I can assure you the Station Constabulary has detained no one illegally. Could you please elaborate?”
“Don’t play coy, Commissioner.” Whether he was truly peeved or not, Miguna certainly looked aggrieved at this supposed infringement of liberty. “I’m talking about the citizens exercising their lawful rights of assembly and speech who gathered outside the Commonwealth Consulate earlier today. Your officers scooped them up willy-nilly along with the violent instigators who assaulted them.”
“I see,” Toiwa said, feeling the muscles in her jaw tighten. She took a sip of water as she pondered which tack to take. ‘Bureaucratic stonewalling’ won out. “I’m afraid we’re still assessing the video evidence and taking statements from all involved. It will take some time to complete those actions and ensure that due process is granted to everyone involved. I’m sure that once the proceedings of justice have run their course that your supporters will all receive the appropriate outcomes.” Which, based on Inspector Tábara’s initial report, would include at least a half-dozen charges of incitement to violence, which carried cumulative penalties based on how many violent acts followed the incitement. The presence of the reinforcing goon squads spoke to premeditation, which—if her people could prove it, and she thought they could—meant this particular bunch of buttonheads were looking at years of confinement and counseling, in addition to reparative damages.