Gus looked at the ceiling and searched his memory, saying, “It’s from an old Scottish expression: Possession is eleven points in the law, and they say there are but twelve.”
“What the Nifflheim does that mean?”
“It means that in a property dispute, in the absence of clear and compelling testimony or documentation to the contrary, the person in actual possession of the contested property is presumed to be the rightful owner. The shirt and trousers you are currently wearing is presumed to be yours, unless someone can prove that they are not.”
Gus paused to pull out a cigar and light it. “Clancy possesses such documentation, anyway, remember? Inspector Piet Dumont dug it up himself and I had it reissued so Clancy’s real signature could be put on the documents. That covers our asses, too, by the way. And there are no counter documents proving otherwise; I made sure of that. It means Clancy Slade is now the proud owner of a country cabin, aircar and a lot of cash and sunstones. Good for him, I say.”
Ben mulled it over, then started laughing softly. “First Thaxter’s cell, now his cabin. Clancy is making a career out of sleeping in Thaxter’s bed. Let’s hope this is for the last time.”
Gus smiled and nodded. “I’ll drink to that. In fact, I’ll even buy the first round.”
XXXV
Richard Lundgren was very afraid. When Dane and Murdock were shot on the steps of the B.I.N. building, he had mixed feelings. Dane was a good administrator and had a long-term plan that would make all of them very rich while Murdock provided muscle and underworld know-how. However, with them out of the picture, Lundgren was prepared to take over the operation. He wasn’t the least bit concerned about opposition from Dr. Quigley, Prof. Darloss or Dr. Rankin. They were all lab geeks unaccustomed to running a business. It was all set for him to just step up and take over.
Then the police stormed in with a stack of warrants to go over the building inch by inch. Warrants to search the building, rifle the files and, worst of all, seize the computers. There was a lot of very damaging evidence on those computers. A smart forensic computer cop would find the program used to hack the Terran Federation Naval communications and the virus Lundgren created to bitch up the CZC mainframe.
Taking over was out. Staying on-planet was out. Lundgren rifled the safe and stuffed all the cash and sunstones he could carry into a duffle bag. It was time to go. There was an outbound ship scheduled to leave planet the next day. Lundgren planned on being on it. With the mentality of a rat leaving a sinking ship, he left without warning the others.
* * * * * * * * *
Dr. Quigley had just finished adjusting the gamma emitter when he was swarmed by policemen. Somehow they had found the entrance to the secret passageway and followed it down to find him. The doctor was quickly handcuffed and escorted up the passage while the cops photographed and impounded everything in sight.
“I demand to speak to an attorney!” the outraged doctor yelled. “What am I being charged with?”
“Homicide, conspiracy, accomplice after the fact…we’ll give you the whole long list on the ride to the station.” Officer Chang recited the ancient Miranda speech then did a mental double take. “Dr. Quigley? By any chance are you related to a Joseph Quigley?”
“Yes. My son.” Quigley almost mentioned that Joe died two months earlier before remembering the circumstances of his death. Instead, he asked, “Why?”
“We have a Joseph Aaron Quigley in custody. He was brought in from Beta Continent earlier today.”
“He’s alive?”
The officer nodded.
“Forget the lawyer. Take me to see my son!”
* * * * * * * * *
Prof. Darloss was in the middle of working on his next interview for Spinning Wheels by compiling a list of reasons the Fuzzies couldn’t be native to Zarathustra. It wasn’t going as well as he would have liked. Fuzzies being the only indigenous bipedal life-forms had already been addressed when he was on the Tuning In With Tuning show a few months earlier. Hoenveld, not even an anthropologist or paleontologist, had managed to refute every claim to proof with annoying ease.
Darloss considered using “McGuire’s Adaptive DNA Theorem” to explain the comparative similarity in genetic make-up between the Fuzzies and the rest of Zarathustran life. The problem there was the appallingly limited intelligence of the viewing audience. Most colonials, while capable and savvy about survival, knew very little about biology beyond ‘eat this and you live, eat that and you die.’
The professor’s efforts were additionally frustrated by the fact that Ivan Dane had been shot the day before. Ivan—no scientist by any measure—still had a way of spinning information or suggesting avenues of research that were amazingly helpful. The loss of Brandon Murdock, while unfortunate, had no impact on Darloss’s work.
There was some sort of commotion going on outside his office. After thinking about it, Darloss realized that the noise had been building up for some time. He opened the door to find a very large policeman with a raised fist standing in front of him.
“Prof. Darloss? You are under arrest for homicide, conspiracy…” Officer Akpu-nku went on at some length, then recited the Miranda as he cuffed the professor.
Outraged, Darloss screamed his innocence. His protests fell on deaf ears.
* * * * * * * * *
Dr. Rankin returned from the pharmacy in a B.I.N. aircar and spotted the squadron of police vehicles on the roof and around the building. After the shooting the day before, he quickly surmised that something of their activities had leaked to the police and now everybody was being arrested.
Rankin had no interest in participating in the dog and pony show that was to surely follow and quickly altered course toward Junktown. There, he planned to sell the medical supplies he had just acquired on the black market, then buy an off-world ticket. He could probably sell the aircar, too, if he found the right buyer in the limited time he had.
* * * * * * * * *
“Put as many more as you can spare at the spaceport, Frank,” Marshal Fane barked into the viewscreen. “I’ll swing the overtime somehow. It’s still your baby. I don’t want to step on your toes, but we have to get these clowns before they skip planet.”
Mallorysport Police Chief Frank Carr nodded in the screen. Max tapped a few buttons on his desk terminal and the screen image split into three windows: Chief Carr plus photo images of Richard Lundgren and Dr. Rankin. “These are the two mutts we’re still looking for.”
“I’ll circulate these to the men,” Chief Carr said. “They might be wearing synthmasks. I’ll tell the men to detain and check anybody matching their general height and build.”
“Good thinking. Try not to trample too many civil liberties while you’re at it, though. Ben will scream bloody murder if the media spins that the wrong way.”
Carr chuckled at that. “He’s a bit oversensitive, I think. Still, at least he isn’t one of those micromanaging semi-dictators I could name from other worlds. Back to this…Lundgren and Rankin? How dangerous are they?”
“Damn. I should have had you in the interrogation room with that Dr. Quigley. I guess I’ve been doing the micromanaging, again, and for that you have my apologies. Lundgren is a computer geek and Rankin is a medico. No history of violence on either of them.”
“First time for everything, Marshal. I’ll have the men treat them as potentially armed and dangerous. I’ll have the extra spaceport cops work in mufti with tranq-guns so as not to disturb the law-abiding citizenry.”
“Good idea, but lethal force is authorized should it become necessary.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “I guess I really should have been in that interview. What all is Quigley telling us?”
“Everything about everybody. All he wants is immunity for his kid. He didn’t know that Dane and Murdock killed Bowlby, not that it matters since we have the video feed to prove that, but he knows about the Thaxter jailbreak, fake sunstones, illegal mining on the Fuzzy reservation, accidental manslaughter of a F
uzzy and a litany of other crimes. Gus is going to be very busy for a good long while on all of this. Oh, and pick up Spike Heenan, too. We found some interesting documents on his activities at the B.I.N. building. Murdock was putting the screws to him.”
“Huh. All this and Hugo Ingermann, too. It’s a good day to be a cop on Zarathustra.”
“Amen to that, brother.”
* * * * * * * * *
The biology department of Science Division was crowded to overflowing. Everybody who had a legitimate reason to be there was there, along with a number of people who normally had no business there. Among those normally not in attendance were several police officers, Gus Brannhard and Ruth van Riebeek and various news reporters from CZCN and other non-company affiliates.
Officers Chase and Warlikeshire carried in a long box that had been seized at the B.I.N. building and placed on the table indicated by Juan Jimenez. The officers set the box down and stepped back. A lab tech opened the box and extracted the contents while a second tech video recorded everything.
“These were in the B.I.N. building?”
Officer Chase nodded. “They were in a hidden sub-basement through a secret corridor, Dr. Jimenez. Before your people do whatever it is you do, we need to dust these for prints and DNA. Mr. Grego insisted that we do that under your department’s supervision so as not to damage anything.”
Grego said nothing. It was Juan’s division and he didn’t want to undercut his authority in front of his people.
“Thank you, Officer. That was very accommodating of the police to agree to that.” Juan inspected the items extracted from the box as they were arranged on a second table.
“These look like those bones from that B.I.N. special last week,” Officer Warlikeshire observed. “’Specially that skull.”
The tech set the skull down on the table. “Good eye, Officer. In fact, some of these fossils might belong to the other bones found on Beta.”
“So these aren’t a murder victim?” Chase asked.
“No. At least not a recent one,” Juan replied. There was a short laugh among the crowd. “These are what we are calling Fuzzy giganticus beta. And no, we are quite convinced they didn’t pilot that rocket found near their bones.”
Warlikeshire smiled and said, “I never thought they did, doctor. Shall we proceed with the forensic examination?”
Juan asked for a list of chemicals that would be used and the police forensic pathologist, Dr. Laurie rattled them off. Hoenveld stated that the substances would not damage the fossils and Laurie proceeded.
In the background Victor Grego stood next to Gus Brannhard watching Dr. Laurie work. “Gus, is this at all necessary? From what I hear, the case against the B.I.N. crowd is already airtight.”
Gus snorted. “There is no such thing as an airtight case, Victor. Ghu himself could testify against these Khooghras and they could get off. Legal loopholes, surprise witnesses, brain dead jury—you name it.”
“Even with the veridicator?”
“The veridicator can’t compel people to speak, only catch them in a lie if they do. Ingermann will know that better than anybody. Keeping his clients mum was his favorite strategy when he practiced law on Zarathustra. Plus, the prosecution can’t force the defendant to take the stand where he might incriminate himself. Only the defense can do that. That means loading up on all the physical evidence we can find. Prints, DNA, fibers, witness accounts, video feeds, the works.”
Grego nodded. “Ben must be all over this.”
Gus shook his head. “Nope. Not even a little bit. Ingermann was using B.I.N. to attack the government. The Governor can’t touch it without it looking like payback. So, he’s taking a break and doing a world tour meeting people, shaking babies, kissing hands…the usual.”
Grego stifled a chuckle. The mental image of Ben Rainsford picking up infants and shaking them was as strangely amusing as it was revolting. “So Juan Takagashi will run things until he gets back?”
“That’s what vice-governors are for,” Gus said.
“Will he be back for the execution of the Fuzzy slavers?”
“Ha! You better believe it. Front row seat.”
Dr. Laurie completed his examination, recorded the results then stepped back from the table. “They’re all yours, Dr. Jimenez.”
Juan thanked the doctor, then nodded to Dr. Hoenveld. Hoenveld, with the aid of several biologists and lab techs, quickly rearranged the new skeleton with the previous three, swapping out bones until the four skeletons were laid out in the most likely forms.
“It looks like there are still a number of bones missing, Chris,” Grego observed.
“That is to be expected after many millennia, Mr. Grego.” Hoenveld was both respectful and condescending at the same time. It was an impressive trick. “When an animal or sapient creature, for that matter, dies in the wild, the bodies become targets for scavengers. These scavengers often collect choice pieces and take them back to their burrows or dens. Then there are the elements, rain, wind and storms that can blow the bones around. The very ground can even act to separate the bones through quakes and volcanic action. And, of course, if they were killed by a predator, the bones could also be scattered, gnawed or even partially digested.
“Frankly, to find four skeletons this complete is nothing less than incredible. There is also the possibility that we don’t have four skeletons, but fragments from any number of remains that just seem to fit together. I daresay I could take the skeletons of many of the people gathered here and make a very convincing skeleton using the pieces of several donors.”
“Still,” Juan interrupted, “we have more than enough fossil remains to construct a holographic simulation of what these…creatures must have looked like. We can even simulate posture and how they walked based on the spinal alignment and pelvis. Miss Ubinger?”
A young blonde woman fiddled with some settings of a large machine then nodded at Juan.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will please back up? We scanned all of the fossils into the matrix as we sorted and arranged them prior to the addition of the last skeleton. Even without the recent addition, we were able to extrapolate what these creatures would look like. Miss Ubinger?”
The woman pressed a button and three quasi-hominids appeared in the newly vacated floor space. Their posture was similar to that of Terran chimpanzees. The faces, though similar to that of the Modern Fuzzy, were far burlier, with a sloping forehead, thick brow ridge and lantern jaw. The dentition was clearly designed for tearing and ripping flesh.
Several people in the crowd took video and camera pictures of the holographic display. Ubinger toggled another switch and the holographic quasi-primates simulated walking, though they remained in place.
“Our findings will be made public in case anybody wants to verify them. I think all but the most fanatical among us can conclude that these…primates would have been incapable of piloting a spacecraft.”
Gus snorted under his breath and whispered to Grego, “Want to bet?”
Grego shrugged. “There will always be conspiracy theorists and crackpots among us.”
XXXVI
The Mallorysport-Darius spaceport was crawling with police. Some in uniform, most in plainclothes. Richard Lundgren recognized most of them from his illegal forays into the police mainframe. At the time he was looking for cops who could be bought as per Ivan Dane’s orders.
A synthmask wouldn’t get through the shuttle dock security, and Lundgren knew it. Not that it mattered; he didn’t have one. Instead, Lundgren tried a low-tech approach. Using a can of spray-dye he changed his hair color to red, inserted green lenses in his eyes and added a fake mole to his cheek. Glasses and false beards tended to draw more attention. Less was more.
He left the men’s room intending to walk straight to the ticket counter. Instead he clashed with a woman he failed to see in his hurry.
“Hello, Richard,” the woman said.
Lundgren did a double take; it was Affanita. He was too surpr
ised to try a bluff. “What are you doing here?
“I followed you from the B.I.N. building. I was a bit surprised when I saw you come out of there, to be honest,” the woman explained. “I have a bone to pick with you about those sunstones.”
“What? You haven’t even brought me my cut from the last batch. What are you so bent about?” Lundgren checked his chronometer. The shuttle would be leaving in fifteen minutes. “Never mind. Just keep it. I have to…make a call.”
“Funny thing about those sunstones. A quarter of them were fakes. It took me forever to get through all the questions I had to answer. Under veridication, no less. I had to cut a deal with the CZC to avoid prosecution.”
“What? They spotted the fakes? How?”
“How should I know? I didn’t even know that they were phonies. But I swung a sweetheart deal to keep out of jail. They confiscated the faux stones and even paid me for the real ones. All I had to do was tell them everything I knew about you.” Affanita smiled. “And there’s a bonus if I turn you in.”
“What? No!”
“Over here, guys!”
Before Lundgren could try to run, he was seized by two plainclothes cops.
Affanita kissed Lundgren on the cheek, then said, “See you in court, Tiger.”
* * * * * * * * *
Dr. Rankin, fresh from Junktown, entered the spaceport and went directly to the ticket counter. There, he bought a one-way ticket to Terra under a fake name. From there he proceeded to the waiting area.
On the way he noticed a disturbance. A man had been seized by two other men and a woman. It was Richard Lundgren. The red hair and mole didn’t fool Rankin for a second. The doctor quickly turned his back on the tableau hoping that Lundgren wouldn’t see him and call out. It took all his willpower to keep from breaking into a run.
At the waiting area he produced his forged documents and ticket for the clerk.
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