Rath's Trial (The Janus Group Book 4)

by Piers Platt

  “Yes, sir,” they replied.

  The instructor dropped back, falling in next to Dasi.

  “What’s wrong, Cadet?”

  “Cramp, sir,” Dasi said, wincing.

  “Gotta run through it,” the instructor observed. “Breathe deep, it’ll work itself out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re going to catch those boys,” he told her, nodding to the other two, who were disappearing around a bend in the trail ahead.

  Dasi whimpered. “I don’t think I can, sir.”

  “Bullshit. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” she lied.

  “Then keep up.” He picked up the pace, and Dasi tried to match it. “Come on,” he said. “Keep pushing.”

  After a minute, they had closed half the distance, but Dasi slowed down again, gasping. “I can’t,” she said.

  “I can’t, sir,” the instructor corrected. “Stop here. Catch your breath.”

  Relieved, Dasi stopped, gulping for air.

  “Why did you want to be a cop, Cadet Apter?”

  She shook her head, still gasping. “To help … people.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Good enough. What happened, then? Why aren’t you trying anymore?”

  “I am,” she protested. “I’m just … not good … at anything.”

  “Your written test scores are all good,” he said.

  “I can’t shoot,” she said. She gestured at the trail. “Can’t run. Lousy at restraint techniques.”

  “You’re just making excuses,” he said. “Let me tell you a secret: the trick to making it through training isn’t being strong enough, or smart enough. Everyone’s got weak spots in their game. It’s about being disciplined enough to put in the extra work to fix those weak spots. But only you can decide whether you want to do that work, or whether you want to call it quits.”

  Dasi wiped sweat from her brow. “I think I might want to quit.”

  He sighed. “I’ll make you a deal: finish the run, and then see how you feel.”

  Dasi looked up at the trail.

  “Come on,” he said. “Just take it one mile at a time.”

  13

  Paisen palmed the door switch, and the cabin door slid closed. She flipped the viewscreen on, and tuned it to a galactic news channel, then requested the latest security-related news stories, queueing them up to play.

  You assembled the team and trained them. Now it’s time to find a client.

  The news clips started with a story about protests at Anchorpoint, where a group of citizens were demanding a more far-reaching Senate audit process. She tuned the story out, and opened her datascroll, accessing the files C4ble had pulled from his hack of Guild Headquarters.

  Let’s start with their old client database.

  She clicked on the icon. C4ble had not sent this particular file to Dasi or Beauceron – perhaps concerned that the file might enable law enforcement to identify him in some way, the hacker had wisely withheld it from those file dumps, and shared it only with Paisen and Rath.

  Let’s see who might be interested in hiring Guild assets again, for a new line of work.

  Data analysis had never been Paisen’s strong suit – she tried filtering the file, or sorting it, but eventually resorted to simply scrolling through the list of names and their primary business. The business descriptions were shockingly frank.

  Drug kingpin … Territorial military officer … debt collector … venture capitalist … another drug dealer … human trafficker … attorney – that’s funny.

  She opened a note file on the screen, starting a list of potential names to contact. But after nearly an hour of searching, she read over the list and was dismayed that it contained only Territorial officials.

  Well, that makes sense, she thought. Regular citizens who would want to hire us are all going to be criminals, and they’re just going to want us to kill people for them … and I’m not running a private hit squad. This is about espionage … and the occasional direct action mission, if I think it’s warranted. She frowned. Okay, so what is it about working for the Territories that leaves a bad taste in my mouth?

  She opened several of the Territorial contact files, reading over the details of each. She sat back and rubbed her eyes, sighing. They’re all criminals, too … they’re just more important criminals. And more dangerous. Fuck.

  On the viewscreen above her, a new story came on – an interview with a senator named Lask. Below his name, the screen read: Member, Senate Intelligence Committee. Paisen reached a hand up and gestured for the volume to increase.

  “… not going to say we don’t have any resources,” Lask said, giving his interviewer a tight smile, “but we have very, very few assets on the ground. And the threat is increasing, from what we’re seeing.”

  “What threat specifically, Senator?”

  “Armed conflict with the Territories,” Lask replied. “At least five different Territorial governments possess militaries capable of launching attacks on Federacy planets, by our estimate. And some of those governments are decidedly unfriendly, or unstable.”

  “But Senator, surely that’s alarmist. What Territorial planet in their right mind would attack us, when the Fleet Reaction Force is standing by, ready to respond?”

  “I’m glad you brought the Fleet Reaction Force up,” Lask said. “That force – and you’re assuming it is a viable force, which I think is debatable – was used with some regularity in the early days of the Federacy. Let me remind you that the FRF was actually designed as a proactive tool in our arsenal, despite its name. On several occasions we activated it, and it struck Territory militaries preemptively, before they reached the capability to attack us. But we’ve grown lax in our old age – complacent, if you will. We’ve let several Territories grow their militaries well beyond what they need to protect themselves, or to maintain order on their home planet.”

  “Are you suggesting they could invade a Federacy planet, and defeat the Reaction Force when it retaliates?”

  “No, I’m suggesting that it should never come to that,” Lask said, shaking his head. “If one of our planets is invaded, God forbid, then the Reaction Force has already failed in its mission. Like all deterrents, the FRF loses its value if it’s not used from time-to-time. And we haven’t used the FRF in over a hundred years.”

  “A minute ago you said the Reaction Force isn’t a viable military unit anymore …,” the interviewer suggested.

  “I did not – I said that its viability is up for debate. I don’t want to diminish the service of our volunteer reservists that make up the Force. But comparatively, it may not be the threat it once was. Though they are often poorly-equipped, most militaries in the Territories are filled with seasoned veterans – they’ve seen war firsthand, and learned from it. The men and women of the FRF just train on weekends, sporadically. Not a single one serving today has experienced actual combat. And it has been a long time since we upgraded their ships. Their weapons and equipment are all quite old at this point. In working order? Yes. But certainly not cutting edge technology anymore. So all of that worries me.”

  “So you’re suggesting we activate the FRF, send the fleet to the Territories, and launch strikes, preemptively, against potential aggressors? That hardly seems in keeping with the Federacy’s democratic values.”

  “I’m suggesting we may need to, yes,” Lask replied. “But first, it’s vital that we build a more robust intelligence-gathering capability.”

  “Senator Lask, from the Intelligence Committee. Thank you, sir, for your time.”

  “My pleasure.”

  A new story came on, and Paisen muted the screen. She looked down at the list of names on her datascroll, and then shut it on impulse.

  She stood and faced the viewscreen. “Call Tepper,” she said.

  The dialing icon appeared, and then she saw a darkened cabin on screen. Tepper fumbled for the light over his bunk, and then sat up, swinging his legs onto the floor.

  “Yeah
?” he yawned. He was still wearing his sim-suit, Paisen saw.

  “We’re going to Anchorpoint,” Paisen told him.

  “All of us?” Tepper asked.

  “Just you and me,” Paisen said. “Pack a suit and tie.”

  “Okay,” he said. “What’s at Anchorpoint?”

  “Our first client,” Paisen said.

  14

  Atalia pushed the safe house door closed with her foot, and used an elbow to slide the deadbolt home. Beauceron looked up from the kitchen table as she entered, carrying two bags of takeout food.

  “Hope you’re not a vegetarian,” Atalia said, dumping the bags on the table.

  “No,” Beauceron said. He picked up a container and a pair of chopsticks. “Szechuan?”

  “Mm,” Atalia said, throwing her coat over a chair. “One of those is rice something, the other is noodles with … beef, I think. Both spicy, fair warning.”

  “That’s fine,” Beauceron said. “Any progress?”

  “Yes,” Atalia said, dumping noodles into a plastic bowl. “I got some more details on Armadyne’s testing procedures from a former employee.”

  “How did you get him to tell you?” Beauceron asked.

  “I paid him,” Atalia said, simply. “I’ve got an expense account for stuff like that. Don’t look so shocked, Martin, that’s how things work out here.”

  “Okay,” the detective replied. “What did he say?”

  “He said Armadyne owns a big chunk of real estate on the outskirts of one of the radiation zones. A bunch of ranges, that’s where they test all of their stuff. Which is nowhere near the factory site, by the way. So your theory about stray rounds or some kind of guidance system failure doesn’t hold water.”

  Beauceron nodded. “Have they sold the device to anyone?”

  “No,” Atalia said. “The guy said they’re nowhere close to a working model. When Paisen broke in, she deleted all of their project files. They lost everything, and one of the key project leads left right before that, so they’re not even sure they can build one again.”

  “Good,” Beauceron observed. “I hope they fail.”

  Atalia chewed on a bite of noodles. “What about you?” she asked, her mouth full.

  “Less success than you, I’m afraid,” Beauceron admitted. He stood and filled two glasses of water from the sink, then handed one to Atalia. “I spent some time on the phone with the IP Cyber-Division lead assigned to support us, but all I know is how much she sold the plans for, and when the transaction took place. That’s not nearly enough information, apparently – the Cyber lead tells me there are hundreds of black market service exchanges she might have used to broker the deal, so he wouldn’t even know where to start.”

  “Dead end,” Atalia grunted.

  “Yes,” Beauceron agreed. “But before you came in, I had a thought: we should try to trace where the PKDs came from.”

  “Like, what company manufactured the darts? I thought those things blew up.”

  “No,” Beauceron shook his head, and sipped his water. “I mean: what launched the darts? Where did they come from in orbit?”

  “Ah,” Atalia said. She selected the rice container and slid more food into her bowl.

  “We launched them from weapons pods on the Hurasu when we used them on Fusoria,” Beauceron noted. “But there may be other ways of launching them. And we’d need access to space traffic control logs here on New Liberia in order to see what was in orbit over the factory during that time … assuming they even keep such logs in the Territories.”

  Atalia pulled her holophone out of her pocket. “Ask and ye shall receive,” she said, tapping on the holograms.

  “You have a contact in space traffic control?” Beauceron asked.

  “Well, yeah, I do. And I could ask him to look it up for us … but he gave me his login,” Atalia said, grinning.

  “How did you pull that off?” Beauceron asked.

  “One: I’m good at my job,” Atalia commented. “And two: space traffic controllers get shit for pay. Okay, let me concentrate on this for a second.”

  Beauceron ate in silence, watching her work.

  “Bingo,” she said. “There was an orbital drone up over the factory that day. A Zeisskraft Mark Sixteen – let me check the product page. Yeah, that sounds right: autonomous, highly maneuverable, medium payload, easily modified for intelligence or military applications, yadda yadda.”

  Beauceron took out his notepad and scribbled on a blank page. “They’re for sale?” he asked.

  Atalia flipped through several screens. “Yes: ‘sales associates are standing by, call now.’ The Zeisskraft Corporation is registered in the Federacy.”

  “Then we can get a warrant for their purchase records,” Beauceron noted. “Excellent.”

  Atalia shut her phone. “What was the name of that ship?” she asked. “The one you and the guildsmen were on?”

  “Hm? Oh: Hurasu,” Beauceron said. “Why?”

  “Because we should be trying to locate it, assuming it’s our last lead on Paisen and Rath.”

  “It is,” Beauceron said. “But there’s an IP Task Force running the Guild investigation, and they already located the Hurasu. A lawyer sold it about a month ago to a dealer in the Territories, on behalf of his client. I assume Captain Mikolos was rewarded with some of the Guild money for his assistance, and he wisely dumped his ship before IP tracked him down.”

  “Did that task force search the ship for the device?” Atalia asked.

  “Yes,” Beauceron said. “There was no sign of it.”

  “So they moved it.”

  “Maybe,” Beauceron agreed.

  Atalia frowned. “I still like Paisen and Rath for this; there are too many coincidences.”

  “What’s their motive?” Beauceron asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Atalia said. “But if there’s one thing that could make up for you fucking over my assignment here, it would be catching those guys. And we’ve got a mountain of evidence against them for their other crimes.”

  Beauceron sighed. “I’m not trying to protect them – truly,” he said. “But I know them fairly well. I can’t see them using this weapon.”

  Atalia narrowed her eyes at Beauceron. “I find it hard to believe that you’re defending two people with over a hundred murders between them,” she said. “And I read your report on the Guild takedown: Paisen was prepared to blow up an entire city block using this device, just to force the Guild to pay her.”

  “True,” Beauceron admitted. “But both of them have their money, and the Guild is gone. Why go to such effort to build a weapon of mass destruction? Who could they possibly intend to use it against?”

  “I don’t know,” Atalia said, exhaling noisily. She folded the food containers closed, and loaded the leftovers into the fridge.

  Beauceron dumped the used bowls into the sink. “Well, I’m not writing them off yet,” he told her. “But I don’t think they’re our best suspects.”

  “You’re going to look into the Zeisskraft angle?”

  “Yes,” Beauceron agreed. “And perhaps that will lead us to them, anyway.”

  * * *

  The Zeisskraft purchase database was waiting in Beauceron’s inbox when he woke the following morning. Score one for the modern investigatory process, he thought. The detective shaved and showered, then made a carafe of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, pulling up the files on his datascroll. He nearly spat his first sip of coffee out when the database opened.

  No … can it be? The very first entry?

  He clicked on the record, and a more detailed receipt opened up. He shook his head, and bent over his note pad, scribbling. Atalia walked in several minutes later.

  “Morning,” Beauceron said.

  Atalia grunted in reply. He glanced up, then looked away, embarrassed – the younger woman wore just a baggy sweatshirt over a pair of waist-hugging briefs, and for the first time, Beauceron noticed just how attractive she was, despite her sleep-disheve
led curls.

  “Is there more coffee?” she asked, yawning.

  “Ah, yes,” Beauceron said, “right over there.”

  “Thanks.”

  She poured a mug and sat across from him, drinking quietly. Beauceron kept his eyes on the datascroll.

  “You an early bird?” she asked.

  “Well, no … it’s almost nine,” Beauceron said.

  “Early for me,” Atalia commented.

  “My wife used to hate getting up in the morning,” Beauceron said. “She was always grumpy for the first hour, like she was angry at the sun for having risen.”

  Atalia nodded her chin toward Beauceron’s left hand, which still bore his wedding ring. “Is she back on Alberon?” she asked.

  “Ah, no,” Beauceron said. “She passed away.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” Atalia said.

  “No, it’s okay. It happened ages ago. Twenty years this fall.”

  “You still wear your ring,” Atalia pointed out.

  “I do.” He shook his head. “It’s funny, even her father used to urge me to move on.”

  “You never remarried?”

  “No. I just never met someone who could replace her.”

  “No one should replace her,” Atalia observed. “But that doesn’t mean you have to live alone. Sorry – I’m meddling, and now this is awkward.”

  She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, pulling the hem of her sweatshirt up over her stomach. Beauceron blushed. “Whaddya got?” she asked, indicating his datascroll.

  “A solid lead,” Beauceron said, happy for the distraction. “It’s literally the first entry in the database. Zeisskraft sold twenty Mark Sixteens two weeks ago, and delivered them here, to New Liberia.”

  “Really?” Atalia asked. “That’s promising. Who bought ‘em?”

  “I don’t know. The database just says ‘Private party sale.’ Apparently the government here doesn’t require either the seller or the buyer to maintain detailed records when potential weapon systems like this are sold.”