by Piers Platt
The attendant collected the last signature, checked it, and then shut down the datascroll. He turned to the officer at the front of the room.
“All set,” he said.
“All right,” the police officer said. He stood up.
“On your feet,” he told them.
Dasi stood, along with the dozen other young people in the room.
“You signed the paperwork, but taking the oath is what makes it official. So any of you that are still having second thoughts, this is your final chance.” He paced along the front row, eyeing them individually. “Anyone wants to leave, there’s no shame in doing so.” He stopped in front of Dasi. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“Yes,” she replied, without hesitation.
He continued down the row. “After this point, you’ll report to the Training Academy, and if you succeed there, your duty stations. But many of you will not succeed. Study hard, and make sure you choose the right path.” He surveyed the room, scanning their faces one at a time. “I said the right path, now, not the easy path. The two are rarely the same. Strive to be better, every day, and always uphold the honor of the force. Good luck.”
He came to attention, and raised one hand in the air.
“Raise your right hand, and repeat after me.”
Dasi raised her hand.
“I, state your name.”
“I, Dasi Apter.”
“Do solemnly swear ….”
“Do solemnly swear … that I will never betray my integrity, my character, or the public trust. I will demonstrate the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions. I will always uphold my community, and the laws of the Federacy.”
“Welcome to the Interstellar Police, cadets.”
* * *
Beauceron stepped onto the stage, squinting in the bright lights. The hubbub of the press room rose to a fever pitch as he approached the podium, escorted by the Interstellar Police media liaison.
“Detective! A question!”
“Detective Beauceron!”
The media liaison leaned over the microphone. “No prepared statement today, but Detective Beauceron has agreed to field a few questions. I’ll remind you that he’s leading an ongoing investigation into the organization known as the Guild, so anything directly related to that is off the table.”
There was a collective groan from the reporters in the room.
“Everything is related to that!” one of them protested.
The media liaison ignored the shout, stepping aside and allowing Beauceron to come forward. With his short stature, the podium threatened to hide him from view. He blinked, and swallowed nervously.
“Detective! What would you say your big break was in bringing down the Guild?”
The media liaison frowned, but Beauceron cleared his throat. “Our big break? It wasn’t anything I did, so much. I was just lucky – one of the whistleblowers chose me, and I decided to try to help him. And then later, on Fusoria, we were lucky enough to find a clue that led us to Senator Lizelle.”
“A clue? You’ve been very tight-lipped about that part of the story. Care to shed some more light on it?”
“No,” Beauceron replied. “There were other people involved in this case, aside from the two contractors you saw on the web video. But those other people would like their involvement to remain a secret. I think in retrospect they probably had the right idea, staying anonymous. I was somewhat forced into the limelight.”
“You were the one that delivered all of the evidence to the police here on Chennai! How is that forced?”
Beauceron frowned. “I didn’t appreciate how much attention all of this would garner. It was never my intention to take credit for this. The others deserve more credit for their role – the whistleblowers, and Colonel Rozhkov, who sacrificed himself to atone for his past mistakes, and ensure the investigation could continue.”
“How nice is it to hear people call you ‘Detective’ again?” a woman near the back asked.
“It’s nice,” Beauceron admitted. “But it’s not really about the title, or even being reinstated. I’m mostly relieved to be free of the guilt I had.”
“Guilt?” the woman pressed him.
“Yes. A number of years ago, six of my fellow officers were killed by a guildsman back on Alberon. I lived for many years thinking that was my fault, but I know now that that’s not the case. It would be nicer if I could bring those men back, but … failing that, it’s nice to know I brought them some justice. And to have a clear conscience.”
“There was a rumor the whistleblowers sent you some of the money they stole ….”
Beauceron smiled. “They tried to.”
“You sent it back?”
“No,” Beauceron said. “I couldn’t figure out how to do that. But I couldn’t accept it either.”
“So what did you do with it?”
“I donated it to a charity that supports research into rare medical conditions.”
“What are your plans now?”
“Now?” Beauceron shrugged. “Go home to Alberon, and go back to work.”
“The IP public relations office is saying that you turned down a promotion to colonel, and an appointment to head up the Investigations Division at Internal Affairs. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Why?”
“Apart from recent events, that’s not what I’m good at. I’ve done homicide my whole career. I’m looking forward to getting back to it.”
“So why turn down the promotion?” a reporter in the front row asked.
“Because colonels don’t solve crimes. That’s what I enjoy doing. Last question, then I have a flight to catch, I’m sorry.”
“What about the contractors who are still out there? The Guild as an organization is defunct, but there are still hundreds, maybe thousands of contractors at large.”
Beauceron locked eyes with the man. “We will find them. We’ll arrest them, and they’ll answer for their crimes.”
“What about the two whistleblowers? The ones you teamed up with?”
“They have crimes to answer for, just like the others. So we’ll be looking for them, too.” He smiled. “But knowing them, I doubt we’ll be lucky enough to find them.”
26
Rath waited patiently at the security entrance to the police station, and when it was his turn, he walked through the scanner without issue. He collected a visitor badge from an automated kiosk in the lobby, tucking it into his pocket before riding the elevator up several floors. He made his way across a noisy office, weaving his way between the desks of police officers. Seemingly by accident, he bumped into an officer heading in the opposite direction.
“Sorry!” Rath smiled, slipping a hand into one pocket.
“No problem,” the officer replied.
Rath turned and walked to a set of fire stairs, where he climbed up four more floors. His face and hair shifted as he climbed, taking on the aspect of the officer he had run into in the office below. When the transformation was finished, he pulled the officer’s Interstellar Police ID badge out of his pocket, and attached it to the front of his suit. At the top of the stairs, he pushed open the door, and entered a small room with a sign marked EVIDENCE: BADGED PERSONNEL ONLY.
An avatar hologram appeared behind a counter mounted along the far wall. “How can I help you, Officer?”
“I’m looking for a piece of evidence from the Lizelle investigation,” Rath replied. “Specifically, a portable 3D printing device.”
“We have several in storage, sir. Multiple items fitting that description were recovered from the wreckage of the airship.”
“No, not from the airship. It would have come from a police vehicle that was involved. An older model, a Createpack A230, with some shrapnel damage.”
The avatar checked the computer database. “Found it, sir. It will just be a second.”
A conveyor belt delivered a cardboard box to the counter. Rath opened the
box, and pulled out a battered backpack, its olive drab cloth stained by fluid leaks.
“I’m going to take this down to my desk,” he told the avatar.
“Of course, sir. Please just remain within the building – removing evidence from secure IP installations is a federal offense.”
“Is it?” Rath asked. “Huh. Duly noted.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder, and touched the elevator button. When it came, he pressed the button for the lobby. The elevator stopped en route, and a police officer boarded.
“Hey, Trant,” the officer said, recognizing Rath.
Rath smiled back. “Hey, what’s up?”
The officer exhaled noisily. “Same shit, different day, man.”
“I hear that,” Rath said.
“This whole Guild investigation is just out of control, you know? I don’t mind the overtime, but when does it end?”
“When we catch them all?” Rath guessed.
“Very funny,” the uniformed officer told him. “My lieutenant has decided this is his best shot for a promotion. He’s got it stuck in his head that because they were here on Emerist once, those two contractors are going to be back at any minute.”
“They’d have to be pretty dumb to come back,” Rath observed.
“Right? He’s seeing ghosts everywhere. Suddenly, everyone’s a guildsman in disguise.”
“Are you a guildsman?” Rath asked, jokingly.
“Nope,” the officer chuckled. “Are you?”
Rath winked. “Ya got me.” He held out his hands, offering his wrists to be handcuffed.
The officer laughed, and the doors to the lobby slid open.
“See you around, Trant.”
“Later,” Rath replied.
Outside the police station, he strolled over to a luxury air car idling at the curb. Rath opened the door and sat in the pilot’s seat, sinking into the plush leather.
“Back to the spaceport,” he ordered.
The auto-pilot engaged, and the car lifted off smoothly, joining the air traffic above Emerist’s clouds. Behind the wheel, Rath changed back to a standard cover identity, checking his face in the mirror briefly. Then he set his Forge down on the seat next to him, and patted it with an affectionate smile.
* * *
The contractor finished his bourbon, and set the glass down on the bar.
“Same again?” the bartender asked, walking over.
“No, I’m good.”
“Okay. Let me know,” the bartender told him. He wandered back to the other end of the bar.
The contractor spun the glass slowly in his fingers, frowning uncertainly. He put the glass down, and drummed his fingers on the bar.
“Special update,” the viewscreen above the bar announced. “Our coverage of the Guild scandal continues.”
“This again?” The bartender swore and reached into the air, gesturing at the TV to change the channel.
“Wait,” the contractor said. “Turn it back.”
The bartender sighed, but flicked his fingers in the air again, and the news show returned.
“—stellar Police continue to impound real estate and related assets of the Nkosi family,” the reporter read. “All family members are in custody, but it’s unclear, police say, how much involvement family members had when it comes to the actual management of the Guild, other than Siya herself, who played a pivotal role. What is clear, however, is the extent to which the family as a whole benefitted from the relationship. Property and vehicles seized to date amount to more than three and a half billion dollars.”
The bartender whistled appreciatively.
“Siya Nkosi has been indicted on a multitude of charges including criminal conspiracy, money laundering, and multiple counts of conspiracy to commit murder. Given the weight of evidence posted to the internet, legal experts expect convictions on most charges, and a life sentence. Meanwhile, Senate approval ratings have dropped to record low levels, as more details emerge about the role the three murdered senators played in protecting the Guild, and even directing guildsmen to assassinate political rivals. As for the unknown number of guildsmen still at large … no arrests have been made.”
“Thanks,” the contractor told the bartender. “You can change it again.”
A message notification appeared in the contractor’s heads-up display. He opened it, feeling his heartbeat quicken. A video appeared.
“I’m Contractor 339,” a middle-aged woman told the camera. “This is 621.”
As she spoke, the man and the woman shifted appearance smoothly, and then both held up grey counter bracelets with glowing 50 holograms.
“We made it to fifty kills. But the Group lied to us, and betrayed us.” She smiled. “They paid dearly for that error. And now the Group is gone.”
Beside her, 621 spoke: “We’ve taken the liberty of seizing their funds, including your earnings. Those earnings are now being deposited into each of your expense accounts. One hundred percent of what you earned, no matter how many contracts you fulfilled.”
“Your contract is now terminated,” the woman continued, “which means you have two options. You can use your skills to remain anonymous, and simply live your life, enjoying your newfound wealth.”
“I imagine many of you will choose to do just that,” 621 said. “But if you get bored of it, or you decide you’d like to earn a bit more money … well, we all have a unique skillset. Those skills mean we can excel at things other than killing. Surveillance. Intelligence. Espionage. If you’d be interested in future assignments, reply to this message, and we’ll be in touch.”
The video ended. The contractor glanced both ways down the bar, and then removed a datascroll from his pocket. He logged in to his expense account, and refreshed the balance.
“Bartender?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I think I will have another bourbon. Actually, what’s that black bottle up top?”
“That’s a very expensive whiskey,” the bartender warned him. “It’s mostly for display. I don’t think it’s even been opened.”
“Is it any good?” the contractor asked.
“Yeah, it’s phenomenal.” The bartender stood on a step-stool, and lifted the bottle down, inspecting the label. “Here we go. Yeah, Glenkillie fifty-year barrel-aged.”
“Fifty-year?” The contractor laughed. “That’s perfect. Crack that thing open, and grab a glass for yourself, too.”
* * *
Rath hiked through the villa’s garden, following the flagstone path to the pool at the top of the cliffs. He found Paisen swimming a set of laps, so he wandered to the edge of the cliff, and stood looking out over the sea. The turquoise waters swirled around the rocks below, and out over the horizon, the sun was setting, lighting the clouds with pinks and oranges. Rath took a deep breath, drinking in the salty ocean air and the lush garden odors. Then he smelled a slight hint of a man’s cologne. He turned and found a butler approaching.
“Welcome back, sir. Can I get you anything?”
“Something to eat would be great,” Rath told him. “But make it to go, I’m leaving again tonight.”
“Of course.” The man bowed his head. “Any requests?”
“Surprise me,” Rath said.
“You got it?” Paisen asked. She held onto the edge of the pool, catching her breath.
“Yeah,” Rath said, squatting next to her and setting the Forge on the stones. “I found a repair shop, too – it’s as good as new. And with full canisters.”
She laughed. “It’s just a Forge. You act like it’s your little sidekick.”
Rath shrugged. “How’s the water?”
“Refreshing,” she told him, pulling herself out of the water and picking up a towel. “You going in?”
“It’s tempting,” Rath admitted. “You know, I nearly drowned during Selection, but I like swimming now. There’s something relaxing about it.”
“It’s the weightlessness,” Paisen told him, tilting her head to let the water r
un out of her ear. “Total freedom of motion.”
“Maybe. Did you send the message?”
“Yup. And C4ble made the money transfers.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “We’re significantly poorer now, you know.”
Rath laughed. “… says the billionaire.”
Paisen frowned in mock anger. “When you start from nothing like we did, every cent matters.”
“They earned that money, just like we did.”
“Bullshit! We did a lot more to earn our money.” She softened. “But they do deserve their shares, you’re right. And there’s plenty left for us.”
The sun touched the horizon, and they stood watching it in silence, until it slipped out of view.
“Reminds me of Fusoria,” Paisen mused. “I used to watch the sunsets every day during Selection. Everything else there was drab, harsh … intimidating. But the sunsets … they reminded me there was something better up ahead.”
“Mm,” Rath said. “I know what you mean. The sunrises, too – I usually had the pleasure of being awake for both, and most of the night in between.”
A notification appeared in Rath’s heads-up display.
“Mikolos has the Hurasu refueled. I better get going.”
“Fly safe,” Paisen told him.
“Bye,” he said. Rath started to walk inside, then stopped and turned. He held the necklace he had bought for Jaymy in one hand.
“Paisen … what do I tell her?”
“The truth,” she said.
Rath chewed the inside of his cheek. “Right,” he said. He stuck the necklace back in his pocket, and slid the Forge over his shoulder.
“Good luck,” Paisen called.
“Thanks,” Rath said, and then he disappeared back down the garden path.
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