Docking at Central, Harcourt pulled the four-man into an empty bay with practiced ease. Once Fergus had managed to unfold himself from the back and smooth down his suit, they took a tube lift straight up into the underbelly of Central’s spindle. Harcourt handed Fergus a small verified key. “To the storage unit with your prototype,” he said. “It was rented under the Anders name.”
“Right,” Fergus said, following. “Thanks.”
Harcourt grabbed his arm and hauled him forward. “If you walk behind me,” he said, “everyone will assume I own you, that I am your boss. You walk with me like an equal, and you act like that very expensive suit you’re wearing is not just your skin but goes all the way down to wrap itself around your bones. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“You nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Don’t let it show.”
People streamed around them, walking with purpose, and conversation was loud, fast. There were merchants standing along the edges of the wide corridors displaying wares to passersby, trying to make eye contact but accosting no one, unlike their more aggressive counterparts in Central’s ring, where Fergus had come with Mauda to sell her lichen. The farther in they went, the fewer people were wearing exosuits and the more people were dressed as if they could be walking the halls of government or big business on any major human colony.
Except Baselle, Fergus amended, because then there would be no women allowed out here in public.
They passed through three more gates before they were allowed onto the executive ring of Cernee. Gravity was nearly Earth-perfect. One of Harcourt’s men stayed behind outside with a growing collection of surly, abandoned minionry, and Bale followed Fergus and Harcourt through the wide doors into a richly carpeted, round room. The back wall was hung with tapestries depicting the construction of the sunshields. There was a single wide table at the front and smaller stepped rows of seats lining the perimeter.
I am the suit, Fergus told himself, and took his seat with entirely feigned nonchalance.
Arum Gilger sat on the far side of the room.
He was taller than the Cernee natives, almost as pale as Fergus himself, his face rounded with a thickness that out here meant he’d been well off for most of his life. As if to emphasize the impression of wealth, he was dressed in gold and bright red. He’s patterned his clothes after Basellan high nobility, Fergus realized. Did his family fall that far? If so—if Gilger had grown up with that much power and prestige and then had it suddenly stripped from him—it could explain a lot.
Sitting shoulder to shoulder with him was a Luceatan in a sleeveless tunic in similar colors. He was the reverse image of Gilger, hard where the other was soft, a razor where the other was hidden edges, all the differences an upbringing in comfortable nobility versus brutal exile could write on a man. His expressionless face and ropy, muscular arms were decorated with Faither glyphs and crisscrossed by scars. His eyes, even from across the room, were dark pits.
“Borr Graf,” Bale whispered, following Fergus’s gaze as he slipped past to take the seat behind them.
“Shhh,” Harcourt hissed.
In another section, a man whose bone-thin face was taken up by a majestically sharp nose and equally dramatic scowl leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest, watching everyone else: Vinsic, the ore trader and another of the “powers.” He was thinner than Fergus expected. Vinsic had three men with him, dressed in matching dark blue. If the local news was accurate, nearly a dozen of Vinsic’s key people had disappeared over the last half year. Best guesses were predation by one of the other five or internal housecleaning, but regardless of what was true, Vinsic was no longer the unassailable power he had recently been.
Not that you’d know it from looking at him, Fergus thought. There was a hard, cold confidence in Vinsic’s posture and body language that was impossible to reconcile with any hint of weakness. He was grateful that it wasn’t Vinsic he had to go up against.
Not far from Vinsic’s left, a middle-aged, mid-toned woman dressed in gray and green sat with one leg crossed over the other, her fingers interlaced over her knee. Her expression was passive, unreadable, but her eyes swept over the room like knives. Ms. Ili.
Gilger was starting to look positively soft.
Nearest the door were three people dressed in white exosuits, mirrored face shields down, anonymous. Shielders, Fergus realized from his research. Descendants of some of the original engineers who had built Cernee, the Shielders were the caretakers of the shield systems that formed the sunward-facing outer edge of about 120 degrees of Cernee’s circumference and protected the settlement from excessive solar radiation and flare. They also oversaw the distribution of energy to the rest of Cernee over the same lines that were used for transportation. Fergus’s understanding of how—or even if—the elusive and eccentric residents of the seven gigantic sunshields fit into the social structure of Cernee was nonexistent, and he wasn’t sure the rest of Cernee itself was any the wiser. From everything he’d read, they just wanted to be left alone to do their own thing. It was the destruction of a line that must have drawn them out for the hearing.
The seats behind them all filled in with other people who had come to witness the proceedings, some in expensive suits, some not. Fergus spotted an elderly man clutching a Rattletrap funeral flag in shaking hands, and the raw grief on his face was enough to make Fergus look away.
He was careful not to make eye contact with anyone, but he was keenly aware of more than one set of eyes studying him.
A chime rang. Everyone stood as a woman strode into the room, visibly armed, dressed in a spotless Authority uniform with no rank insignia except a yellow X embroidered on the stiff upright collar. She was short even among Cernee natives but built like a tank, if tanks were constructed entirely of muscle and disapproval. She stood to one side as the Governor entered and took his seat at the head table, then she sat beside him. Two more people in Authority colors entered and stood behind them at the front of the room, one holding a small box.
The Governor of Cernekan was a man for whom the finest, most exquisitely tailored suit—and his was certainly that—only served to emphasize how utterly nondescript the man wearing it was. Late middle-aged, middle-sized, hair a fine gray, there was nothing about him to suggest he was anyone to pay attention to until he leaned forward and began to speak.
“This hearing into the circumstances of the cable break between Mezzanine Rock and Blackcans, the subsequent breach of the hab at Rattletrap, and the deaths of thirty-seven people, eighteen of them children, is now convened,” he said, his voice like glowing red iron. “You may sit.”
He didn’t seem to be speaking at significant volume, but his words carried to every corner of the room. Everyone still standing took their seats quickly and with a minimum of commotion.
“We recovered the remains of an EMP mine amid the debris,” the Governor said. The assistant behind him reached into his box and placed a blackened, warped disk on the table. “The cable car was deliberately destroyed.”
“I thought this hearing was to discuss an accident,” Gilger said. His accent was pure upper-class Basellan.
“We wouldn’t want to start off with any assumptions,” the Governor replied. His smile did not reach his eyes. “The cable station recorded two passengers: an offworlder whose body we haven’t yet recovered, and Mattie Vahn, whose body we have. You wouldn’t happen to have anything to contribute to our understanding of these events, Mr. Gilger?”
“Mattie Vahn and I had our differences, but I never wished her harm,” Gilger said, leaning back in his seat. “If there are those who would accuse me of it, I say bring on the evidence. You’ll find none because there is none.”
“I assume that statement is on the record?” the Governor asked.
“Why shouldn’t it be?” Gilger answered. “Surely the record will also show that the wom
an attracted trouble. Accidents followed her and her family around. Maybe she was the cause of this unfortunate event as well and finally paid the price for her sins.”
As angry murmuring broke out around them, Fergus caught the faint twitch of a smile on Graf’s face, quickly buried again.
The Governor held up one hand to forestall any replies, then gestured his assistant forward. “The incident timeline?” he asked.
“The cable car was first crippled with an EMP mine, taking down all security monitoring systems on the car,” the assistant said. “While the car was subsequently destroyed by an explosion, some of the debris had embedded fragments that don’t match the cable car material. Virtual reconstruction shows that those fragments and pattern of damage were localized to the back of the car, suggesting a directed attack from outside prior to the explosion.”
“Please share with the room your conclusions as to the cause,” the Governor said.
“A shrapnel cannon moved to within range, followed by a secondary explosion, likely an added function of the EMP mine itself. Ms. Vahn and her fellow passenger appear to have already exited the car, but must have been well within the blast range when the explosion occurred. We are unable to tell from Ms. Vahn’s remains if she was still alive at the time of the secondary explosion, Lord Governor, sir.”
“Your confidence in this scenario?”
“Approximately ninety-five percent, sir.”
“Do you find it plausible that Mattie Vahn shot herself with a shrapnel cannon?”
The assistant blinked. “Lord Governor, I don’t— Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Not really,” the Governor said, “although I would hate to overlook any possibilities suggested by our concerned citizens.”
“I wouldn’t think it plausible, no, sir.”
“Then I believe we can say with confidence that this was no accident and that Mattie Vahn and the offworlder were intentionally killed?”
“Yes, sir, that is our conclusion. We returned Ms. Vahn’s remains to her family just prior to this hearing for C&R.”
At Fergus’s puzzled look, Harcourt leaned slightly closer and whispered, “Ceremony and Recycling.”
Gilger’s voice rose. “Independent verification—”
“I suggest that Mr. Gilger strongly consider letting the Vahns mourn in peace while this matter continues to be investigated by those with the authority to do so,” the Governor interrupted. “After all, we have not ruled out anyone as a suspect, not even our esteemed colleagues in this very room.”
Gilger raised both hands. “I was conducting business in NoMoar when the accident happened. People will confirm this.”
The Governor didn’t raise his voice or change his inflection, but the sudden chill in the room was palpable. “The murder of two people, one of whom was a law-abiding citizen, is ample crime in and of itself, but the resulting deaths of thirty-seven more people due to the assault on the lines—which is not just our transportation and power distribution system but a vital part of how we maintain the structural integrity of Cernee—is an abhorrent act that demonstrates a callous disinterest in the well-being of our entire fragile community. Both act and consequence will most certainly be weighed fully against the perpetrator when—not if—justice is done.”
“If there’s no security footage—”
The Governor tapped the remains of the EMP mine on the table. “Authority will spare no effort or expense in gathering all available evidence. I am issuing a blanket warrant entitling them to go wherever they need to go anywhere within the territory of Cernee without hindrance, and to talk to anyone they suspect may have information. I am also offering a reward for any eyewitnesses who come forward. If the guilty party can be determined, there will be no rock small enough for him to hide inside.” He surveyed the room.
Most of the room watched Gilger.
“If it pleases Your Lord Governor,” Harcourt said, standing.
Bloody hell, Fergus thought, standing up beside him. Here we go.
The Governor’s gaze fell on them like a hawk spotting movement in an unexpected quarter of grass. “Mr. Harcourt, you have information?”
“I seek to offer assistance,” Harcourt said. “More specifically, the assistance of an associate of mine.” He held out one hand toward Fergus. “This is Mr. Anders.”
“Continue,” the Governor said after a half beat pause. Across the room, Gilger’s eyes narrowed. Graf’s gaze had fixed on them both, his face stone.
Fergus cleaned his throat. “Your Lord Governor, I represent a small sci-tech company based in Lunar Three, near Earth. We have a prototype that we think may be able to help shed some light on the events under discussion.”
“What is it a prototype of?”
“Ah . . . it’s a bit technical.”
“Explain or sit down, Mr. Anders.”
“Ah. Yes. As you know, the history of the universe is written in light. When an event happens, the light that intersects that event is changed by it, and the reflected light effectively captures the moment. What we’ve discovered is that photons, as they interact as both wave and particle with other particles in the interstellar medium, affect and are affected by those interactions. Our prototype, set up between two points, uses a highly focused, specialized light source to read the interference patterns between those points and extrapolate backward over time the most probable interactions that resulted in those states.”
He took a quick breath and hoped his voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “From there,” he continued, “we can recreate the images carried by the original light. In short, under very specific conditions, our device allows us to see back in time. We call it a Light Afterimage Retrieval Device.”
The Governor frowned and looked at his tech. “LARD?! That sounds . . . stupid,” he said.
“We prefer not to use the acronym,” Fergus answered. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“I imagine not,” the Governor said.
“It’s likely that I’m not explaining the underlying concept well, but our scientists have had success in our limited tests thus far,” Fergus said. “I was sent out to find an occasion to test it in the real world, and this seems like an ideal opportunity.”
“And how much is this ‘opportunity’ going to cost us?”
“Nothing, Lord Governor. If the test succeeds, that is payment enough,” Fergus said. “If it fails, Cernekan is far enough away from the core multiworlds that any potential damage to our reputation would be negligible. No offense. And it won’t interfere with your investigation either way.”
“This is ridi—” Gilger started. The woman in uniform beside the Governor began to drum her fingers on the table, and he closed his mouth and glared.
The Governor had not taken his eyes off Fergus. “Mr. Harcourt?” he asked. His expression said: This better be good.
“I’ve had good luck with other tech of theirs in the past,” Harcourt said. “When I heard of this device, I thought it was worth a try. My people reviewed the science, and to my surprise and, I suspect, their own, they endorsed it conceptually.”
“What’s the name of your company, Mr. Anders?”
“SteloFocus Tech,” Fergus said.
The Governor turned to his security chief. “Katra, get me a background check on the company and Mr. Anders here.”
Well, that expensive call I made from Catchcan just paid for itself, Fergus thought. Everyone waited as she pulled up the info on her handpad, then passed it to the Governor. It would show that the hours-old shell company had a history going back to premigration Earth itself, inconveniently headquartered in one of many places that were now underwater. There were even some planted news archives about SteloFocus Tech’s tentative steps toward relocating to the moon.
If it didn’t show that, and if Fergus lived, he’d be due a very significant refund.<
br />
The Governor read it, pursed his lips, then looked up. “Assuming I allow you to proceed—”
Gilger leapt to his feet. “You can’t seriously think—”
“Would you presume to tell me what I can and cannot think?” the Governor asked coolly.
Gilger stared for a long moment before retaking his seat. Hatred came off him in waves. “No, Lord Governor.”
“Well, then. Mr. Anders, if I were to allow you to proceed, what would you need for this test of yours?”
“I’ll need to set up my prototype with a clear line of sight to where the event occurred,” Fergus said. “It will shine a very bright, highly focused beam of light along that path and begin collecting data. It will take somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes. Once the test has begun, though, it’s important that nothing large and/or dense crosses or blocks the light path in any way, as that will invalidate the results. The scattering of the light from our prototype will ‘corrupt,’ if you will, the local residual data, rendering any subsequent attempt at retrieval impossible.”
“So you’re just going to shine a bright light from Mezzanine Rock down the line? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The Governor was shaking his head. He’s not going to go for it, Fergus thought. Damn! I knew it was too far-fetched.
Gilger stood up again, more composed this time. “Lord Governor, I object,” he said. “For one thing, do we trust outsiders to be more thorough than our own investigators? And how do we know this isn’t just some scheme of Harcourt’s to keep himself from being implicated by the evidence? You’ve suggested weapons were used in the attack—do we need to look outside this very room for the likely source? It would be a fool’s risk to let them do this.”
“Sit down, Mr. Gilger,” the Governor said. He pressed his thumbs against his temples, closed his eyes, and sat still for several long minutes. Around the room, the fidgeting that Fergus would have expected anywhere else was almost entirely absent. Gilger was leaning in toward Graf, his mouth moving slightly as he whispered something to his second, but his eyes never left the central table. Vinsic was watching Fergus intently.
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