by Pam Uphoff
The boy was there. All curled up, hugging his knees and staring out over the ocean. He looked over his shoulder at her. "School sucks."
Rael ignored that, and dumped her stuff. Stood staring out over the ocean herself. I can do this. She took up a starting stance. "You ever do any martial arts, kid?"
"That's sissy stuff. I box . . . well, I practice punching, sometimes."
"This is the basic starting position. Feet apart, toeing slightly in, knees bent . . . "
She started with a kata so basic she barely remembered it. Her first attempt was pitiful. She cursed, and tried it again.
The boy got up and watched her, then tried to copy her. Strong, flexible, young. Ruining his life with drugs and crime.
"Nice. Now I'm going to sit down before I collapse. That is I'm going to hide a near collapse, by gracefully seating myself. And then I'm going to practice a bit of power collection and dispersion."
He sat a few meters away, and copied her every move, hung on her every word.
Strays. Feed 'em once and you can't get rid of them.
Monday afternoon at the beach quickly became a part of her routine.
Not always pleasant, but sometimes amusing.
"Stupid crips. Ought to be aborted so they don't weigh down the economy. Or at least locked away, where we don't have to get sick looking at them."
Rael turned her head to eye the man frowning down at her. She'd been trying to stretch her right shoulder, fighting the adhesions across her back . . . out of the corner of her eye she noticed that her traitorous right hand was not at a "natural" angle.
The boy growled a bit, on her other side.
She lowered her arm and looked around at Kitchen. "I love the beach, but occasionally you just have to deal with assholes. It's no big deal. Although arguing with anyone stupid enough to think they own the world can be a challenge."
"You think I'm stupid?" The jerk was looming and getting into her space.
"The first thing to remember is to not argue with them. They're good at pulling you down to their level of stupidity and then beating you with their vast experience." She rolled her shoulders and settled back into her basic stance. And straightening the wrist, curling the fingers. All the muscles obeyed, slowly, fighting stiff tendons, but gave no feedback. Note to self. Do not hit anyone or anything with your right hand. "Now, let's run through that again. Sir, you might want to step back, we're exercising."
He stepped closer. No surprise. Standard jerk
She opened up mentally, to read the stranger. Anger, contempt . . . twisted sexual hunger. Barely anything that qualified as a mental shield.
She sent a soft spell oozing through that pathetic shield. Stepped forward into the kata as he twitched, slapped the back of his neck. Cursed and bent to scratch his ankle, the back of his knee, his shoulder blade, all down his back . . .
The boy was wide-eyed, trying to not keep looking over his shoulder as the man stomped away, stopping periodically to try to scratch the next itchy spot and the next as they multiplied.
"How long will that last? Can I learn how to do it?"
"Half an hour, and I have better sense than to teach you the itch attack! Especially since it's illegal."
He huffed out a satisfied breath. "Can Clostuones be presidential guards? I'm beginning to think I'd like it."
"Yes, but they still can't just make idiots itch whenever they get really irritating."
"Rats!"
"I can get away with it, because I'm extra sneaky. And I could do a great wounded hero sob story in front of a judge. But I ought not do it, anyway."
He looked unconvinced.
"And you'd have to learn to ride a horse. Even though we rarely do anything with the Blackhorse Guards."
"I'll start lessons immediately."
So daily physical therapy, frequent walks-with-babies, once a week sessions on the beach . . . She got stronger, more flexible. But still scarred, still with large numb patches. Those will never go away. Adapt. Exercise more. She added an evening stroll to her routine.
The kid knows all the basics. One Damn it all. "All right. Let's just see if I can manage a side kick without falling on my face."
". . . Well. You didn't fall on your face."
"Watch it kid. Nobody likes a smart ass." Rael climbed back to her feet. "Perhaps we need to move down onto the firmer sand for this."
"Maybe I can fall down and break something. Not have to do finals. I hate geography."
"Geography's easy. How many regions on the One World?"
"Eight. And the twelve colonies are treated like regions, under the law."
"And they are split into . . . "
He rolled his eyes. "Divisions. The South American Region is split into five Divisions. The Uruguay Division—so named because the old country of Uruguay surrendered without a fight, unlike the rest, that had to be bombed back into the dark ages."
"I'd recommend rephrasing that last bit for the test."
He snickered. "Uruguay is split into fifty Districts. We are in the Montevideo District. The Districts are mostly administrative areas, but there's a rough congruence with the Oner Clans. I learned all this years ago. Why do they have to keep going over and over it?"
"Because schools are made for suffering? To prepare you for the appalling routine of working for a living?"
He followed her through half the new kata without a problem. "I see. So . . . when I look over the girls at school, the really, really weird ones are probably princesses?"
"Smart ass."
Ramadan came, with all the inevitable inconveniences when the devout Islamics closed their shops during the day. And then everything came to life after dark, restaurants were stuffed, but only after sundown, traffic a huge tangle until dawn . . .
At least they all adapted to the new calendar. The old one had only three hundred and sixty days in a year, so holidays had crept up earlier every solar year.
With school out, she started hitting the beach earlier, then added Thursday to her beach routine. And more moves. Between Mr. Zip working on adhesions, and increased flexibility, her balance was improving, movements starting to flow, and her speed returned.
I feel good!
And the kid copied everything she did. Even increasing his speed with hers.
"That's a weird effect. It feels more like the world is slowing down than me speeding up. It's what the fencers do, isn't it?"
"Yep. Except most of them do it by getting angry. The only two I can think of who do it cool like this . . . they're two of the best fencers I've ever seen."
He looked sideways at her. "Was Endi Dewulfe one of them?"
"Yes. The other is a Regional Analyst with the Interior Directorate."
"And you."
"I don't fence. Never did. And with this hand, I don't think I ever will."
"I'll bet you could."
She snorted. The kid's good for me. I always thought good influences were supposed to be older and wiser. Very strange.
On the Night of Power they all, family and staff, walked down to the beach, to watch the fireworks. The babies cried. Moah got scolded when her mother caught her exchanging glances with a boy . . .
A breakfast feast at dawn, and presents, then back to normal.
The Summer Solstice, Winter Solstice in the north, of course, and then the first new moon started the new year. That bit of the old calendar really ought to have been ditched with the rest! It may be traditional, but it's also illogical.
She saluted the rising of the razor thin moon just after dawn, then went back to bed. A new year. And somewhere, some time in it I will need to find a new start, a new life.
She paged through the courses at the local college. What training, what education, would be useful to . . . whatever I'm going to be? Law? Civics? Political science? History? Logic, philosophy, sociology . . . drat. I thought I was done with school. The Princess School was . . . Different. Wide ranging. With a focus on . . . things I can't do anymore. I'll t
alk to a counsellor. As soon as I pick a new career.
Chapter Five
Friday, 3 Muharram 1398
"Quince? They're cooking up their Dream with quince from here? Tart little lozenges, dissolve in the mouth . . . like candy. One!" Senior Investigator Ahxe flipped through the report from the directorate. "Seeds and all, the cyanide is part of the process . . . Ha! As much of it as they've figured out. Plus opiates, of course, I knew that. Except that . . . the new variety is made from already prepared heroin." He broke off at a tap on his door.
Uqpy stuck his smug face around the door. "We've bagged the supplier in Low Town."
"With evidence?" Ox stood and headed for the door
"Several hundred kilos worth. The lab people are on site, bagging and tagging."
Ohje Clostuone—Jorge to his friends—sat silently. No matter what they said to or about him. Mentally shielded.
Uqpy scowled. "He said he was keeping some stuff for a friend in his back room, hadn't even looked at it and it couldn't possibly be drugs. Then he said he wanted a lawyer and shut up."
Chief Irqy looked resigned. "Some days I curse the Prophets and their One Damned civil rights. We'll just have to do it the hard way. And if we're really lucky trace everything back to the manufacturer."
Ox nodded. "I'm working on that from the other direction, as well. Tracing ingredients. I was over in Cordoba again yesterday. There's a good chance their division is the source of some of the ingredients. Illegal opium poppies and perfectly legal quince. They've hit the poppy fields hard, so that ought to help. Although with the poppy cut off, the Dream manufacturers have apparently started using imported heroin. I'll be trying to co-ordinate with Brazil Division about interdicting more heroin shipments. We may be able to trace from there to the Dream manufacturer as well."
The chief glanced at the desk, scattered notes and pictures; sighed. "I miss fieldwork. The 'High Low Club?' Pathetic. I'll let you to get on with it, though."
The Chief of Police was the sole elective office in the whole law enforcement chain, from the Imperial level at the Directorate of Interior Relations all the way down to the street patrols. Once elected, the district chief was suppose to drop politics and only bias procedures according to local customs. And "provide leadership." The man regularly visited every local police HQ in the District, trying to be more than a voice on the com.
The lawyers, plural, showed up and closeted themselves with Jorge.
Ox wandered off to eat and check his mail. When he returned, the lawyers were busy erecting a wall of legalese around their client. He was delighted to be called away on another matter.
Ymme—who'd somehow become a detective despite his impressive computer skills—followed. "If you think Uqpy was insufferable before, this is going to have him dreaming of stepping up into your job."
"Eh, he's a good cop, just needs his ego deflated a few times so a bit more reality can seep in."
He trudged through paperwork for another hour before the red emergency light started flashing on his com.
"They stole the dream!" Uqpy was nearly shouting. "They fucking stole the evidence van with every single box of dream!"
Several frustrating hours later the emptied out van was pulled out of an inlet. No sign of the dream, of course. The lab opined that the salt water would have adulterated all traces of the drug. "There wasn't much contamination on the outside of the packaging. They were well wrapped. And no doubt they are currently being repackaged and a new method of smuggling it to Europe or wherever has probably already been figured out. And the courts . . . even if we could detect traces of dream from inside the evidence safe, the court wouldn't consider it. There is no proof that it was from the boxes we put in it today."
Ox scowled at the open rear of the van. The entire back was the evidence safe, it was built into the frame of the heavy armored vehicle. The supposedly invulnerable door swung loosely, no damage. It had been unlocked, not forced.
Ox turned away from the dripping vehicle. "Take it away."
The tow truck driver tossed a casual salute, and started securing the van for towing.
Uqpy snarled. "We're going to have to let Jorge go, aren't we?"
"Yes. Son of a . . . and the High Low Club will be clean as a whistle. Probably sold. They'll start back up somewhere else, and we'll have to find them all over again. One Damn it all." Ox kicked the tire of his car, then climbed behind the wheel. "Let's get back to the office."
The Montevideo District of the Uruguay Division encompassed the entirety of the Rio de La Plata, including the multiply-bombed out ruins of Buenos Aires, and stretched from the city limits of Montevideo to the border with the Alegre District, which started a goods ways north of the Clan Enclave and covered the coast northward to just south of Rio de Janeiro. The political lines imposed after the War of Unification ignored the old country borders, of course. The local police HQ was just south of the Enclave, handy to Low Town, the least reputable suburb of Maldonado.
The third floor of the Investigations building was Ox's territory. The detectives were split into specialties, but switched fluidly from vice to drugs to homicide as needed. There was usually a lot of overlap, when problems arose.
They stopped first at the jail, to glare impotently as Jorge collected his possessions and grinned his way past them.
Uqpy was stiff, but Ymme shrugged. "At least he didn't spit."
"He didn't need to. We've been had, and we all know it." Uqpy stomped all the way across to the Investigations building.
The mood inside was frustrated and angry. Everyone knew. The lab people were especially angry.
"Ydda's got a concussion. Doesn't remember a thing. Not sure if he unlocked the van door before he was hit or not. Hardly matters. How the One Hell did anyone sneak up on him? And One knows when we'll get the van back. If it can be fixed."
Ox winced. There goes the vehicle budget. Down the drain. With our case.
He led the way to his office and shut the door.
Ox scowled at the note covered board on the wall opposite his desk. "That was . . . unfortunate."
Uqpy was still furious. "That . . . One Damn it all! They shouldn't have been able to get near the evidence van, it was inside the cordoned off area. And even then they shouldn't have been able to get into the evidence safe in the back of the van. That's . . . either a stolen code card or better electromagic than I've ever heard of, in a petty criminal."
His big case. His excellent investigation. And a lot of it is the idea of losing the drugs and having to let Jorge go. It's not all ladder climbing ego, there. He really is a damn good cop, even if not as good as he thinks he is.
"The van's totaled, I don't care how soon they got it out, sea water is hell on electronics." Ymme looked glum. "Not to mention the lack of drugs for the court case."
"We're beyond the local gangs and dealing with international criminal organizations, now. They may have started out as Multitude gangs, but they've been recruiting and marrying into power right from the start. I suspect we're looking at an electromagician somewhere in the organization. And . . . money can tempt. The person who stole the van may have been . . . one of us." Ox tipped his chair back. Oners are ten percent of the population, but electro-manipulation is beyond three quarters of even the One. And getting trained for it? Difficult, but not impossible. "Possibly someone with a code card. Otherwise opening the safe would be almost impossible. Cutting it open would have been faster, but dream doesn't take high temps well."
"I wonder how many trained electromagicians are in the division, and how we could find them?"
Uqpy crossed his arms and scowled. "How about that disabled Princess? Everyone knows they learn to kill. I'll bet code cracking is on their curriculum as well. And mental manipulations, and such."
"Could well be. But without evidence I wouldn't want to accuse a former presidential bodyguard of even a connection to the drug underground, let alone of a specific crime."
Uqpy growled but didn't argue.
Ymme's thinking. And that's both a good and bad sign. He's too tempted to go a bit too far when it comes to electronic information gathering.
"I think we've got a corruption problem." And . . . I'm going to have to find out if the corruption is in the department or even further up, in the government. Or both.
I just hope it's local, not district wide. Or worse.
"Keep your eyes open, and your mouths shut. We're going to have to have overwhelming evidence, all impeccably legally collected, but any arrests we make may have to start at the top."
Chapter Six
Wednesday, 22 Muharram 1398
Three months of therapy, stairs, and daily walks had had a noticeable effect. She stood straighter, moved more naturally, didn't have to pause in the middle of flights of stairs. With returning fitness, with something resembling poise and posture, she stopped getting the pitying looks from strangers on the street. Or rude comments on the beach.
The twice a week practices on the beach—martial arts and magic—were good for her soul.
Or perhaps it was teaching a boy lost part way in the transition to manhood that was good for the soul.
***
"I bought us both tickets to the Grand Reunion."
"The what?" Rael eyed a squirming baby. "It's almost crawling."
"She is almost crawling. Honestly, Rael! They look quite different. A presidential guard ought to be able to tell her own niece and nephew apart." Raod sat up on the floor. "It a high school reunion for all years. They're hoping to get two thousand attendees."
"Raod . . . something close to ten percent of Montevideo clan graduated from La Playa. That makes, what? Twenty thousand of us? Half of them living close enough to come for a party?"
"Well, they don't bother for regular reunions. Honestly, attendance has just been pathetic. This time they're trying a theme of 'Historical Religions.' And the convention center can handle up to five thousand people, easily."