“Me?” Kazimir asked in shock. Just the notion of leaving Far Away was awesome, let alone traveling around the planets whose names were closer to fable than fact. And she was out there … “Why me? I don’t know anything about the Commonwealth.”
“You can learn easily enough. Harvey says you are quick, which is good. Life there is very different, at least superficially. You must learn how to blend in easily. And you’re young; physically you can still adapt. You’ll have to train hard to build your muscles up to a point where your body can cope with standard gravity. There are drugs which can help, of course, and cellular reprofiling, but those techniques can’t do it all, you’ll need to commit yourself fully.”
“I can do that,” he said without even thinking.
“Was that a yes?”
“Yeah!”
“You will also have to obey orders. My orders. I cannot have you running around loose out there. This is the one operation that cannot be compromised, not ever. It is what the Guardians are, why we exist.”
“I understand that. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t, Kaz. But it will be Johansson who makes the final decision.”
Kazimir gave Scott and Harvey a confused glance. “What decision?”
“If you can help bring back what we need,” Harvey said. “The physical training is only half of your preparation. You really are going to have to learn how to behave like a Commonwealth citizen. I promised Stig you could do that, please don’t make me a liar.”
“Never, but … Johansson will decide?”
“Yes,” Stig said. “You’ll meet him before we begin the operation.”
Kazimir could barely believe what he was hearing. As far as he was concerned, Bradley Johansson was some remote icon that everyone quoted and deferred to, a historical giant. He wasn’t someone you got to meet in the flesh. “Fine,” Kazimir said faintly. “Where is he?”
“At the moment? I don’t know. But we’ll meet him on Earth.”
....
While she was being built, the Second Chance was the unisphere’s primary news story. Details of her design, stories about her construction, spun briefings on the politics behind the decision to build her, gossip on who would be picked for her crew, it all pumped up the ratings for any news media show. Then came the Alamo Avengers attack, and modest interest became outright fascination. It culminated with over seventeen billion people accessing her departure for Dyson Alpha in real-time. After that, as she traversed hyperspace for month after month, there was a distinct feeling of anticlimax, and even a little frustration. Commonwealth citizens simply weren’t used to anything that important being off-line; worse, it would be a year until they did hear what happened. Until then, everybody would just have to fall back on the old familiars of TSI soaps and dramas, squabbling politicians, badly behaved celebrities, and the Commonwealth Cup now moving into the quarter finals.
Then news of Morton’s arrest was released, along with the names of the arresting officers, and every train to Oaktier was suddenly full of reporters hungry for more information. The case was a studio editor’s dream: a Paula Myo investigation of an ice murder, a wealthy suspect with big political and business connections, a strong hint of financial scandal. And sex. What had once been idle Oaktier gossip about Morton seducing the beautiful young Mellanie and ruining her chances on the national diving team was pushed high up the coverage agenda, featuring heavily on every report and info-profile. His earlier conquests were soon tracked down and coaxed into telling their stories for respectable sums of money. Bribes were offered to Darklake City forensics officers to reveal exclusive insights into the evidence that the prosecution would present—which led to five subsequent contempt-of-court proceedings. Tara Jennifer Shaheef and Wyobie Cotal were forced to apply for nonharassment court injunctions against the swarms of reporters laying siege to their homes.
After a month’s buildup, expectations were running high. On the first morning of the trial, Darklake Superior Courthouse had to be cordoned off from the frenzy of media and public interest. Street barriers pushed the expectant crowd back half a city block. A long convoy of police cars and patrolbots escorted the prisoner van around to the secure reception area at the rear of the courthouse, its movements followed by cameras on a dozen helicopters. They never got a glimpse of Morton; the van vanished into a locked garage bay.
The trial venue was Court One, which the judicial authorities had hurriedly spent a large amount of their annual maintenance budget on sprucing up. With Oaktier about to spend at least a week in the focus of the entire Commonwealth, impressions were suddenly paramount. The rich golden brentwood paneling around the dock and judge’s bench was buffed. Both of the lawyers’ long heavy tables were resurfaced and waxed. The walls and ceiling were repainted, with the big justice symbol taken out for cleaning. Every polyphoto strip shone down brightly; the sound system was checked and balanced correctly.
The revamp worked; when the fifty selected pool reporters were finally allowed in on the first morning they all remarked to their audiences how solemn and dignified the chamber was. The kind of place you could put your trust in, knowing that here justice was both fair and thorough.
Presentation was also foremost in the defense strategy. The first time Morton was seen since his arrest was when he walked into the packed courtroom, dressed in a deep purple designer suit, his thick hair perfectly styled, and looking very confident—almost mystified as to why he was here. It was not the image of a guilty man awaiting the inevitable verdict that Paula Myo always got when she prosecuted. As he reached the dock he bowed politely to the curving panel of silver one-way glass that shielded the jury and protected their identities. Just before he sat down he glanced around the packed public gallery, found who he was looking for, and smiled warmly. Every reporter swiveled around, retinal inserts focusing on Mellanie, who was perched elegantly in the front row, wearing a stylish navy-blue jacket and plain white blouse. Dressed so, she managed to project herself as both the epitome of bewildered innocence, and tremendously sexy. Just an ordinary Girl-Next-Door standing by Her Man in the face of a terrible injustice.
Then Paula Myo walked in, wearing a smart gray business suit and black leather shoes. Formidably cool, she exuded her own special brand of confidence. In the studios of a hundred news shows, they once again ran the clip of an impassive sixteen-year-old Paula at her parents’ hugely emotional trial. As it showed across the Commonwealth she sat down between the city’s chief attorney, Ivor Chessel, and Hoshe Finn, whose best suit appeared ancient and derelict amid the high-fashion statements that the principals were wearing.
Judge Carmichael made his entrance, and everybody stood. Morton flashed a reassuring grin up to Mellanie, captured by fifty professional pairs of inserts.
Once the charges had been read out, the defense lawyer, Howard Madoc, immediately applied for a dismissal, citing contamination of evidence by the media. Ivor Chessel attested that the evidence itself was still sound and irrefutable, and only a small part of the prosecution case. Judge Carmichael rejected the appeal, and with the posturing over, the trial began in earnest.
Prosecution laid the case out simply. Morton was a man driven by his raging manic thirst for money and power. His marriage to Tara Jennifer Shaheef was a simple and ruthless first step to achieving that goal. Her family money was used to fund AquaState, giving that small company the financial muscle to go after and win large building development contracts. AquaState under Morton’s fiery management grew successfully until it was ready to go public.
The share flotation was all part of his original grand scheme. It made him rich and gave him the leverage he needed to gain a seat on Gansu’s board. After that, his rise was unstoppable.
But his plan had faced ruin as his then-wife Tara Jennifer Shaheef grew bored with their marriage. If she filed a divorce, AquaState would either be wound up or sold off and the proceeds split between them. Morton would still be rich, a lot richer than he was at the start of the marriage,
but it wasn’t enough for his purpose. It was still too early for the flotation to take place; AquaState wasn’t quite big enough to attract investors. That required another two or three years of uninterrupted growth. “So you killed her,” Ivor Chessel said, standing in front of the dock. “You removed the one obstacle left to flotation, your own wife. And with her out of the way, supposedly living on Tampico, you were free to build up AquaState to the level you required.”
Morton gave Howard Madoc a helpless look—unable to believe anyone could make such an absurd accusation. The defense lawyer, a dignified man who kept his appearance firmly middle-aged with the first frost of silver in his hair, shook his head sadly at such blatant theatrics by the prosecution.
The first prosecution witness was the city’s head of forensics, Sharron Hoffbrand. She confirmed that the bodies dug out of the forty-year-old condo’s foundations were indeed Tara Jennifer Shaheef and Wyobie Cotal. They had both been shot at close range by a very high-powered nervejam weapon, and their memorycell inserts had been erased, probably by an em pulse. The exact time was slightly difficult to pin down after so long, but she could narrow it down to a three-day period in the middle of the week when Morton was away at the conference in Talansee.
Chessel then asked if they’d found any foreign DNA traces on either of the bodies.
“No,” Hoffbrand said. “Cotal was fully clothed. There were the normal particles and dirt you’d expect from moving through the city, but no extraneous DNA. Shaheef was naked, but we found traces of soap and perfume chemicals on her skin, indicating she had been in the bath.”
“Can you tell if she was shot in the bath?” Chessel asked.
“Not after so much time has elapsed, no.”
“But she was in the bath at least prior to the slaying?”
“Yes.”
“So she was at home then?”
“That’s likely, yes.”
“Thank you.” Ivor Chessel turned to the judge. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
Howard Madoc smiled as he got to his feet. “Home or a hotel? Can you really tell the difference?”
“No, it could have been either.”
“Or a friend’s house? Or a public washroom?”
“Somewhere with a bath is as specific as I can get.”
“Was it on Oaktier?”
“There’s no way of knowing.”
“I see. Thank you.”
Prosecution called Tara Jennifer Shaheef. She took the stand wearing a lavender suit with wide white trimming and a too-short skirt. Her hair and too-lavish makeup emphasized how nervous she looked.
“Do you recall having any enemies forty years ago?” Ivor Chessel asked.
“No. I didn’t lead that kind of life. I still don’t.”
“So you certainly weren’t aware of anyone wanting to kill you?”
“No.”
“Do you have any memory or knowledge of visiting the planet Tampico?”
“No, I’d never heard of it until I was re-lifed.”
“What about Broher Associates?”
“The lawyers? No. I heard about them at the same time I did Tampico, when the insurance investigators looked into my disappearance.”
Tara’s eyes watched Howard Madoc as he walked over to her. She hadn’t yet managed to glance in Morton’s direction.
“The prosecution is relying very heavily on the assumption that you were about to divorce my client,” he said. “Were you?”
“I don’t think so. There was no definite plan that I remember. We would have parted eventually. The marriage was moving close to its sell-by date.”
“Is that why you were having an affair?”
“One of the reasons, yes. Life was sweet. Wyobie made it sweeter.”
“Life was sweet,” Madoc repeated thoughtfully. “I see. Do you still see Morton?”
“Sometimes, yes. I don’t avoid him.” She gave a brittle laugh.
“So you’re good friends then?”
“As best as you can be with an ex. He was … supportive when I was re-lifed. It’s quite a shock waking up to find that’s happened to you. The therapists say some people take another lifetime to get over it.”
“So it would be fair to say there is no ill will between you and Morton?” Madoc asked.
“No. That is, I had no reason to suspect any until this blew up.”
“If you had gone and done what the prosecution claimed, and filed for divorce that very week you were killed, would you have insisted that AquaState be wound down or split in half as your marital agreement stated?”
“Objection,” Ivor Chessel said. “That requires speculation.”
“Hardly, Your Honor,” Madoc said smoothly. “I’m asking the prosecution witness what she would actually have done under very specific circumstances; while the entire prosecution case rests upon what might have happened if she did as they believe. Which of us is speculating?”
“I happen to agree with you in this instance,” the judge said. “How the witness believes she would have reacted is not speculation. Please answer the question.”
“I … I’m not sure,” Tara stammered. “Money wasn’t too big an issue for me, I still had access to family funds. I suppose I would have allowed AquaState to continue. Morton would probably have made a good case for getting it ready for flotation.”
“So you were never angry with him?”
“No. All marriages end, everybody knows that. That’s why we have contracts at the beginning.”
Howard Madoc was very careful not to smile at the prosecution team as he sat down.
The second day began with Hoshe Finn taking the stand. He was still in his one best suit with his hair slicked back into the silver clasp he always used; while Paula had chosen a black jacket and light tweed skirt, still every inch the unflappable professional. Morton had gone for expensively casual, with an open-necked white shirt under a gold-embossed waistcoat. His lawyer was wearing the same suit as the previous day, careful to project style without ostentation. Looking down on them, and smiling encouragement when required, Mellanie had selected a pale gray dress, cut tight enough to qualify as an overskin.
“Detective Finn,” Ivor Chessel began. “Is there any evidence Tara Jennifer Shaheef or Wyobie Cotal ever went to Tampico?”
“The tickets were bought, and the law firm hired, but there is no evidence either of them were ever there. We performed an extensive search, there was simply no data or physical trace of them ever being on that planet. We believe the whole Tampico scenario is an alibi for the killer.”
“An alibi?”
“If Morton killed his wife to guarantee the flotation of AquaState, he couldn’t afford to have anybody asking questions about where she was. As far as everyone else was concerned, she had run off with her lover to set up house on a new world. The legal firm of Broher Associates was hired to carry on the fiction by acting on her behalf.”
There was a lot more. Methods used during the search. Verification of police records. Results into inquiries conducted into Wyobie Cotal’s life to see if he had enemies prepared to kill. The official accounts for AquaState. All of them designed to show how the inquiry had carefully narrowed down options until it could be nobody else but Morton. It wasn’t until the afternoon that defense began its questions.
Howard Madoc got Hoshe to tell the court how the original investigation of Cotal’s re-life was winding down when Morton intervened to get the case assigned a higher priority.
“Very curious thing for him to do, if he is the killer, isn’t it?” Madoc asked.
“He wouldn’t know he murdered Shaheef and Cotal,” Hoshe said. “The first thing he would do is have the memory erased.”
“You know that, do you?”
“We examined his secure memory store. There is no memory of the event.”
“Was there a full memory of the week-long convention he was attending at the time of this terrible crime?”
“Essentially yes. However, he could hav
e returned to Darklake City during what was logged in the secure store as a sleep period.”
“You examined my client’s secure memory store. Is there any memory of him ever having been to Tampico?”
“No. But if he killed …”
“Just answer the question you were asked, please, Detective. You have no evidence my client set up this alibi. Would I be right in saying that the person or persons who did actually kill Tara Shaheef would have needed this alibi to deflect any police or private inquiry about her whereabouts?”
“Yes.”
“In the course of your investigation, did you find anyone else with a motive to kill these two unfortunate people?”
“No. There was nothing, no other reason except Morton’s.”
“What about Tara and Wyobie unexpectedly walking in on some deeply illegal criminal gang activity? Was that considered?”
“Yes, we examined it as a possibility. There was no evidence to support the idea.”
“Well there wouldn’t be, would there? If the gang who killed them were smart enough to deliver an alibi that stood for forty years, they’re hardly going to leave evidence lying around. Their only piece of bad luck was my client spotting the re-life connection and asking questions in high places, doing his duty, being a good citizen. And this is his reward. While all we have here in court is your theory mangled to fit the facts, a notion which is based solely on your assumption that my client is a cold, ruthless man. Am I right in that?”
“Yes, that’s what the facts support.”
“But they don’t, Detective. That’s not evidence. That’s your theory. It is not evidence, not some bloodstained blunt instrument in a plastic bag which you can hold up here in court and point to. It is the most tenuous circumstantial theory. So I ask you again: Is there any evidence, physical or digital, that definitely rules out Wyobie Cotal and Tara Jennifer Shaheef walking in on a criminal activity and being killed to shut them up, and incidentally why their memorycell inserts were erased?”
Hoshe stared ahead for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “No, there is no physical or digital evidence which rules that out,” he said in a monotone.
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