by Piers Platt
“No,” Rika said. “On the plus side, the shrapnel was so hot when it hit me, it cauterized the wound right away.” She sniffed. “I smell like a well-done steak right about now.”
“You ready to keep moving?” Wick asked, and then they both froze.
Trucks, Rika mouthed, and Wick nodded. They slithered carefully forward, and peered over a flat rock. A lone jeep burst through a thicket of trees, turning hard. It threatened to tip over for a second, and then righted itself, before continuing on toward them.
“Tepper!” Wick cried. He made to stand up, but Rika grabbed him with her good arm, and yanked him back to the ground.
“Stay down,” she warned him.
Wick was about to argue when a burst of heavy machine gun fire broke the stillness of the woods, and three more vehicles crashed through the trees and into view. At once, the guns mounted atop each truck opened fire, the bullets converging on Tepper’s fleeing jeep. One of his rear tires came apart in a spray of rubber, and Rika saw sparks fly from the jeep’s engine as well. Tepper lost control, and the truck slammed into a tree trunk with a sickening crash.
The chase vehicles pulled up in a semi-circle around the damaged vehicle, and Tepper opened the door, holding up a hand in surrender. He dismounted carefully, clutching a large blood-stain on his stomach with his other hand.
“He’s hurt,” Wick breathed. “Rika, we gotta do something.”
“Stay. Down,” she repeated, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Soldiers dismounted from the trucks, their rifles trained on Tepper. Rika counted eight of them.
An officer spoke into his radio for several seconds, and then turned to his men and spoke two words in the local dialect.
She grabbed Wick, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle his anguished cry, as all eight soldiers opened fire. Tepper stumbled backwards, falling against the truck, and then toppled over. Rika bit her lip, her eyes narrowing, forcing herself to watch. The firing stopped, and one of the soldiers sauntered over and toed Tepper’s body with a boot. He said something to his commander, and then tried to restart Tepper’s truck, but the engine failed to catch. The Jokuans climbed back into their vehicles and drove off. Rika could feel Wick’s hot tears rolling down her hand – she let go of him.
“We should have done something,” he sobbed.
“And get killed too?” she asked. “You think that’s what Tepp would have wanted? How does that repay him for what he did for us?”
Wick sniffed, and took a deep breath. “We’re not going to bury him, are we?” he asked.
“No,” Rika said, pulling herself to her knees. “We’re not. Then they’d know we were here. Come on.”
4
Dasi had been on Excavar for less than two days, but already she felt mildly claustrophobic. The planet’s close proximity to a red supergiant made Excavar’s surface an uninhabitable hellscape, with a rotational cycle that lasted nearly two weeks. The side facing the star melted into an ocean of lava for the first week of that cycle, then froze solid again during the planet’s week-long night. As Dasi had read in the travel literature on the flight in, years ago an enterprising mining company had managed to drill beneath Excavar’s crust over the course of several night-cycles, establishing an underground mining colony nearly ten kilometers below the surface, where the sun’s withering heat could not penetrate. But living underground meant that Dasi hadn’t seen the actual sky since the shuttle flight in – and the knowledge that no shuttles could depart the planet until the next night period only heightened the sensation of being trapped.
In the commuter monorail car, Dasi took a deep breath to calm herself. You’re just fine. Quit freaking out over nothing.
>>>Your stop is coming up, Six notified her.
The monorail emerged from one of the many tunnels linking the planet’s caverns together, and slowed as it approached the next station. When the doors slid open, Dasi exited and made her way down to the street level. Above the buildings, she saw a blue, cloudless sky, projected via simulators onto the cavern’s domed ceiling. The effect was convincing, but just shy of realistic. And it was curious not seeing air or ground cars anywhere – all of the worlds Dasi had lived on before had been full of vehicle traffic. But although nearly half of Excavar’s globe had been settled, its citizens traveled between the many caves and tunnels via monorail alone.
And on foot, Dasi reminded herself. I won’t have any trouble staying in shape during this assignment, what with all the walking.
Ten minutes later, Dasi found herself in a small park nestled among the buildings. She stopped and turned aimlessly, trying to get her bearings.
>>>The office is located in this building.
On her cybernetic eye implants, a yellow outline appeared around a building off to her left.
Thanks, Six.
>>>Of course.
Dasi crossed the park and rang the doorbell. The door buzzed a second later, admitting her.
A man in a worn tweed blazer with greying hair met her at the door. He was trying to hold a mug of coffee, a datascroll, and a stack of printouts all at the same time, and barely succeeding.
“You must be from the Academy,” he said. “Welcome!”
“Thanks,” she told him. She took the coffee mug from him. “Here, let me help.”
“You’re a lifesaver, thanks,” he told her. “It’s Dasi Apter, right?”
“Right,” Dasi said, following him down a narrow, wood-paneled corridor.
“I’m Lefev,” he said. “I’m an attorney by training, but Jace stole me from private practice a couple years back to join his investigative team. Now … where is he?” Lefev peered into an empty office, frowning. “Let’s try the lounge. Do you want some coffee, by the way?” He looked back over his shoulder at Dasi, who was still holding his mug. “Some of your own coffee, I mean.”
“No, thanks,” Dasi said, smiling. On her internal screen, Six had decided to pull up Lefev’s resume – she scanned it as they walked. He had defended several very high profile cases, she noted. Probably very lucrative ones.
“What made you decide to leave private practice?” she asked him.
“Ha!” Lefev laughed. “That presumes I had a choice. I kid – but Jace can be very persuasive, when he sets his mind to something. As you’ve no doubt discovered – he talked you into coming out to this desolate rock, after all.”
They passed several other empty offices and rounded a corner at the end of the hall. Dasi found herself in a small lounge, where she saw a man leaning over, rummaging in the open fridge. She recognized him at once – Jace Hawken, the district attorney who had recruited her.
“Lefev,” he said, without turning. “Can I bum some breakfast off you?”
“If I had any left, I would happily share it,” Lefev said. “You may have the sandwich I brought in for lunch, if you promise to buy me something nice to replace it.”
“Deal,” Hawken said, straightening.
“Our sheriff is here,” Lefev announced, indicating Dasi. “No, that’s not the old expression, is it? There’s a new sheriff in these parts?”
Hawken ignored him. “Dasi!” He beamed, and hurried over to shake her free hand. “How was the trip in? All settled?”
“Fine, and yes, I think so, sir,” Dasi replied. “Ready to start work.”
“Fantastic. You’ve met Lefev. The rest of the team is out on various assignments right now, but you’ll meet them soon enough. Coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
“Ugh, please drop the ‘sir’ thing,” Hawken told her. “It’s Jace, please.”
“Sorry,” Dasi said. “Force of habit from the Academy.”
Hawken sat at the small table, and Dasi and Lefev joined him. The district attorney unwrapped Lefev’s sandwich and bit into it.
“Lefev
,” he said, hiding his mouth behind the back of his hand as he chewed, “want to catch her up?”
“Certainly,” Lefev said, setting his papers on the table. “You heard of our arrest of Exor Davy?”
“Yes,” Dasi agreed.
“That’s been the major success to date in our investigation into the NeoPuritan Church. Davy went by the title ‘Deacon Master’: In their obscure Church hierarchy, that places him just a few rungs below patriarch, which is the highest level. There are six patriarchs, we believe, the most prominent of which is Thomis Rewynn, who leads the congregations on Scapa. The Church has no single head – each region is governed autonomously by a separate patriarch – but if it did, Rewynn would be it.”
“He’s a real dick,” Jace commented, swallowing a bite. “Pardon my language. But you should hear this guy’s sermons.”
“He is a dick,” Lefev agreed. “But so far, a fairly clever one. I suspect one does not rise that high in the Church without being a seasoned political operator. And unfortunately, none of our evidence links him to anything criminal. Likewise, our ultimate targets – the NeoPuritan senators – have also managed to keep their hands clean. As far as we know.”
“Has Exor Davy told you anything since his arrest?” Dasi asked.
“Not a thing,” Lefev said, clucking his tongue. “He’s remained quite loyal to the Church, despite every offer and threat we’ve made. But Davy had access to much of the Church’s financial record-keeping, which we seized during the raid.” He indicated the stack of papers on the table. “So I’m in the midst of examining them for signs of criminal activity. And that brings you up to date.”
“Dasi,” Hawken said, putting the sandwich down, “if you’re ready to start, I’ve got an idea for how to put you to work.”
“Sure,” she said.
“I want you to go undercover into the Church,” Hawken said. “Excavar has one of the biggest congregations in the Federacy, that’s why we’re here. We’ve tried to get inside, but they have a very rigorous screening process for men. I’m hoping because you’re a woman, you might get past their scrutiny.”
“I’m happy to try,” Dasi said.
“We’ll set you up with a false identity to use, but you can’t just walk up and ask to get inside,” Hawken told her. He glanced at Lefev. “For women, there’s only one way in, and it’s … well, it’s a little awkward. You can say ‘no’ if you’re not comfortable with it.”
“How do I get in?”
“You have to get invited,” Hawken said, picking at the crust on the sandwich. “By a man. Either a husband or a prospective one.”
“You want me to get married?” Dasi asked.
“No,” Hawken said. “But you’ll need to find a guy in the Church, and date him a couple times. By all accounts, they move pretty fast – members of the Church are under a lot of recruiting pressure, both to bring in fresh blood, and to marry in order to … well, to make babies, who can one day grow up to be Church members. It makes my skin crawl. But if you find the right guy, chances are he’ll be gauging your interest in marriage pretty quickly. If you indicate you could be amenable, we think he’ll bring you into the Church as a next step in the process.”
“I won’t have to actually marry him?”
“No!” Hawken laughed. “Of course not. And nothing physical either – they forbid anything but hand-holding until after marriage. You just gotta go to dinner with a weirdo a few times, try to get him to like you, and get invited to the Church.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Dasi said.
“Yeah, well – wait until you meet a NeoPuritan in person,” Hawken warned her.
5
“Anders Ricken?” Atalia asked, eyebrows raised. The door to the spaceliner cabin slid shut.
“Yes,” Beauceron agreed, setting his duffel bag on one of the cabin’s beds. “At least, I think so.”
“The guy that started the Third Colonial War. The one that died in a fiery spaceship explosion two hundred years ago.”
“Yes,” Beauceron said. “Him.”
Atalia took a seat on her own bunk, but kept her eyebrows raised. “You got Anders Ricken from that short meeting we just had with the financial advisor guy? He barely knew anything.”
“The evidence is there,” Beauceron said.
“Convince me,” Atalia told him.
“Ricken was killed in 2180. He and his six most trusted lieutenants hijacked a spacecraft in an effort to escape an Interstellar Police dragnet, and the craft blew up in orbit over the planet Caustiga.”
“That’s what they teach in history class,” Atalia agreed.
“We now know that the Senate hired a convicted murderer to plant that bomb. They paid him to assassinate Ricken, and from that, the concept of the Guild was born.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“Ricken and his men were supposedly killed on March eighteenth. Legacy Ventures was founded on April third, two weeks later, in order to manage the money of unnamed individuals. Four weeks after that, the company purchased the Rampart Guardian, and equipped it with ten suspended animation pods. And do you know what planet the ship and pods were delivered to?”
“Caustiga,” Atalia guessed.
“Caustiga,” Beauceron confirmed. “The same planet where, just six weeks earlier, Ricken died a spectacular, public death.”
“And died in such a way that no remains could ever be recovered,” Atalia noted.
“True,” Beauceron agreed. “After the ten cryo-pods were delivered, the Rampart Guardian took off and never entered Federacy airspace again. It’s been flying around the Territories, with up to ten passengers in suspended animation. Ricken’s insurgency was notoriously well-funded – he must have taken that cash and set up Legacy Ventures anonymously to manage the money, and they’ve been living off the interest ever since.”
Atalia studied him for a minute. “It’s crazy,” she said.
“I told you,” he replied.
“I kinda like crazy,” she mused.
“It’s still just a theory,” Beauceron said.
“Why come back now?” Atalia asked.
“Ricken? I don’t know,” Beauceron said. “But he appears to have purchased the plans to the high energy device from Paisen. And it scares the hell out of me to think what a revolutionary like him might choose to do with the weapon he now has on that ship.”
“Oh, fuck,” Atalia said. “I almost forgot about the high energy thing. You want to send this up the chain?”
“I think we need to,” Beauceron said. “We’ve got three days before we arrive on Jokuan. That’s enough time to put all our evidence down on paper. As soon as we land, I’ll call it in.”
“Are you going to tell them you think it’s Ricken on that ship?”
“I don’t know,” Beauceron said. “I used to be the tinfoil hat guy around the office. Nowadays, I seem to have a lot more credibility. But I’m having trouble believing it myself.”
“I still want to try to find Paisen on Jokuan,” Atalia said.
“It’s doubtful she has anything to do with Ricken or his ship – remember, she sold the device anonymously.”
“She’s still wanted for fifty murders,” Atalia pointed out.
“I haven’t forgotten.”
* * *
At the orbital transfer station above Jokuan, Beauceron arranged to rent a private conference room for them. When they found the right room, he keyed the door open, and wheeled Atalia’s roller bag inside, setting his duffel bag next to it.
“Such a gentleman, carrying my bag for me,” Atalia smiled, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.
Beauceron smiled awkwardly. “Atalia, I …”
“If you’re going to get all preachy about dating coworkers again, save it,” she warned him.
“Are we dating?” Beauceron asked.
“I don’t know,” Atalia said. “I’m happy to just play things by ear. Although technically, no, we’re not dating because you’ve never on
ce taken me out to dinner, or a movie, or anything.” She wagged a finger at him. “Come to think of it, I don’t know why I let you sleep with me. You owe me some dates, mister. Or a present, or something. Sheesh.”
She caught Beauceron’s bewildered expression, and laughed. “I’m kidding, relax.”
“I’m sorry, I just … I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“You’re doing fine,” she said, softening. She leaned in for another kiss. “And quit worrying about everything. Our duty stations are halfway across the galaxy from one another. So when this is over, who knows what will happen. For now, just enjoy it.”
“Okay,” he relented. “But I still think we should report it in to our chain of command.”
“Do that, and I’ll dump your ass, I promise. Now, are you going to call this in, or what?”
Beauceron nodded, and set his notebook on the conference room table, then accessed the table’s computer controls, dialing from memory. He sat, and Atalia sat next to him, facing the viewscreen at the end of the small room. It flickered on.
“Detective Beauceron, Detective il-Singh,” an older man greeted them. He wore an Interstellar Police uniform with the name Jesk stenciled on the nametape. “I presume you have an update for me on the search for that prototype?”
“We do, Colonel,” Beauceron said. “We believe we’ve traced the sale of the plans to a ship called the Rampart Guardian. I’m sending you our notes, sir, so you can review them in more detail, but that ship received a shipment of Zeisskraft drones, which were the same type of spacecraft that launched the precision darts above New Liberia.”
“The darts that blew up the factory. Okay, I’m tracking,” Jesk replied, typing on his datascroll. “I don’t show any registration records in Federacy databases for a ship of that name. Do you know who owns it?”
“We have a hunch, sir,” Atalia replied.
“A hunch,” he said, nonplussed. “I’m not a big fan of hunches.”
Beauceron drummed his fingers on the table, and then reached a decision. “Let us develop it some more,” he said. “I don’t think it’s solid enough yet.”