Paloma

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “Really?” Nyquist said, and couldn’t resist added, “I wonder what I’m doing wrong.”

  Fifteen

  Flint decided to leave the information on the Dove. Before he did, he made sure her systems were set to admit no one but him. They were. Paloma had seen to that as well. That would hold the ship for a few hours, maybe days, depending on how long it took Nyquist to discover Paloma’s ownership of the vessel.

  It might also keep the Wagners out, even if they had some kind of court order.

  Flint had to gamble on that because he knew the Lost Seas wouldn’t wait for him.

  He left the Dove and returned to the Emmeline, storing a lot of the information he’d downloaded in his own ship’s systems. He knew the encryptions there were excellent. If he got arrested for the things he was about to try, he could delete the downloads from the Dove from his personal system, and know he had backups.

  He knew how it was starting to look. If he were the investigating officer, he would think his own actions seemed guiltier by the moment. But it was a risk he had to take. He didn’t know what Paloma had left him—at least in terms of information—and he had to protect it.

  Flint hurried out of Terminal 25. He couldn’t act like a rich yacht owner now. He had to call in markers left over from his days in Space Traffic Control, if he still had any. So many police of all ranks hated Retrieval Artists that even if he had saved their lives in the past, they might not be willing to help him now.

  He went down the back corridors that no civilian was supposed to use. No one stopped him. The security systems, set up to keep the civilians out, either weren’t updated or had never bothered to remove his profile from the system.

  Flint suspected it was even simpler than that. He doubted that level of security existed in most of the port. He had long believed that the signs posted at every entrance, which stated such security existed, were the only piece of that security system put into place.

  It took him nearly fifteen minutes of walking, putting his head down when he passed traffic officers or Port Authority personnel, before he got to the Port’s Administration Center. All of the bureaucrats for all of the agencies had offices here. The center was just off the port’s main entrance, and had official-looking signage—all of it rotating by topic—that tried to point him in the right direction.

  They had even installed a few robotic helpers, one of whom greeted Flint. He told it to do something anatomically impossible and walked past it, leaving it to devise an appropriate response.

  He should have gone directly to Port Authority and asked for the unit in charge of confiscated vessels. Instead, he headed for Space Traffic’s Port Headquarters.

  The headquarters sounded more official than it was. Space Traffic had a large room as a staging area, even though it did most of its business out of the port.

  The room had dozens of windows, all of which opened onto the hallway. Behind the main desk, a mural of the various ships that used to land here when this part of the port had been built covered the entire wall. The mural looked yellowed and battered, less attractive than Flint remembered it. The room seemed smaller, too.

  Once this had been the center of his universe. Now it seemed tiny and grungy, at the end of a long corridor, in the back of an out-of-date port building.

  The man behind the desk was small and elderly. He had a wizened face and a shiny bald scalp. Flint smiled. He hadn’t expected Murray to still be on the job. Murray was retirement age when Flint started in Space Traffic.

  “You,” Murray said, pointing at Flint, “aren’t supposed to be here.”

  “I know,” Flint said.

  “I heard you went over to the other side.”

  “I’m a Retrieval Artist, if that’s what you mean,” Flint said.

  Murray waved a bony hand in dismissal. “I don’t talk to criminals.”

  “I’m not a criminal,” Flint said.

  “But you help them.”

  “I find them,” Flint said.

  “And don’t turn them in. That’s collusion or assistance after the fact or just plain criminal involvement, that’s what that is. I don’t need that in my part of the port.”

  Flint swallowed. He had expected this, but not from Murray, who had always been kind to him.

  “We could get into a philosophical discussion about how unfair the laws are,” Flint said.

  “And you won’t convince me,” Murray said. “Laws reflect the society that made them. Yeah, sure, we got to accommodate some alien stuff we don’t like, but they got to accommodate us. It all works out in the end.”

  “And a lot of people die needlessly,” Flint said.

  “Says you. Says the aliens those people crossed, the law works. Get out of my office.”

  Flint took a deep breath. “I didn’t come here to argue philosophy. I came here to talk to you.”

  “Bull,” Murray said. “You didn’t even know I was still here, you and that fancy yacht of yours over in 25.”

  Flint grew warm as a flush built in his cheeks.

  “You think I didn’t see you flaunting your wealth all over the privileged section? Now you need something and you come running to me, when you could’ve come a dozen times before, just to chat. Nope. I don’t got nothing to say to the likes of you.”

  So Murray wasn’t as angry about Flint’s new profession as he was about Flint’s insensitivity.

  “I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” Flint said. It was only a partial lie. He also hadn’t come because of Paloma’s injunction about continuing relationships, however casual they might have been.

  “Yeah,” Murray said with great sarcasm. “You didn’t think to ask me, now, did you?”

  Flint shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not covering your butt about breaking into the Dove,” Murray said. “I been watching. What’d you steal, hmmm? You know that ship is privately owned.”

  “I do,” Flint said. “The woman who owned it was murdered this morning. She was a friend of mine. She asked me to secure her things should something ever happen to her.”

  “Sure she did,” Murray said. “If that ship’s part of a criminal investigation, you know we got to report your entrance.”

  “You have to give any and all pertinent information to the detective in charge,” Flint said. “I used to work that beat, too.”

  “So you know your actions are pretty strange,” Murray said. He now sounded less like an aggrieved man and more like a friend.

  “I know,” Flint said. “and they’re about to get stranger. I need to find out who is in charge of confiscated vessels.”

  “The Dove ain’t been confiscated ever, although once we thought you stole it.”

  “It wasn’t this Dove,” Flint said. “It was a different version. Same owner, similar registration, older space yacht.”

  “Covered your butt then,” Murray said. “You never came in to thank me.”

  It hadn’t even crossed Flint’s mind. “I solved a problem two of your officers lost their lives combating. We’re even.”

  Murray frowned. The wrinkles he’d allowed to remain in his skin gave the frown extra power.

  “You’re cheeky,” he said.

  “I am,” Flint said.

  “You’re breaking the law,” Murray said.

  “Not at the moment,” Flint said. “Unless talking with you is illegal.”

  “You know what I mean. That job of yours.”

  “We’ll agree to disagree,” Flint said. “I like to think I do some good.”

  “Sneaking around in other people’s ships,” Murray said.

  “If I were sneaking, I’d disable your security systems first.”

  Murray glared at him. Flint’s computer skills were legendary in Traffic, since most officers could pilot their ships and do little else.

  “You know any conversation you and I have gets reported to the detective in charge, whoever that may be,” Murray said.

  “His name is Bartholome
w Nyquist,” Flint said. “He’s a good man.”

  “Friend of yours?” Murray asked.

  “No,” Flint said. “Although we’ve run into each other before. He’ll do a good job.”

  “So you don’t object to me talking to him.”

  “Why should I?” Flint said. “You’re both members of the same department.”

  Murray grunted and shoved his chair backwards. Then he stood, put a hand on one of the ships on the mural, and a tray eased out of the ship’s image. He pulled some information flats off of it, as if he were going to get back to work.

  “You were right,” Flint said, not wanting Murray to get too involved with whatever he was doing. “I came here because I need help.”

  “Ain’t it always the way?” Murray took the flats—at least three of them, all of them crammed with the records of the port that dated back to the time that ship was built. At least that was how information had been backed up here when Flint worked in Traffic.

  “I need to get inside a ship named the Lost Seas.”

  Murray dropped the information flats. He crouched, picking them up slowly. Flint watched, knowing better than to offer any help. He didn’t dare touch anything in this room except the desk and the nearby chairs.

  “You need to stay away from that ship,” Murray said. He hadn’t looked up from the spilled flats. His hands shook as he picked them up.

  “Because it’s confiscated, I know,” Flint said.

  “Because it’s quarantined,” Murray said. “We don’t have the authority to send HazMat on board. There’s no way a civilian can get near it.”

  Flint started. Paloma had said nothing about that. “Quarantined for what?”

  “You got me. But the quarantine isn’t just Earth Alliance. There are at least five other united governments that want that ship destroyed because it’s some kind of toxic. That’s why it’s in Terminal 35 under security protection, instead of Terminal 81.”

  Flint shook his head, not understanding. “I thought all quarantined ships went to 81.”

  “They do,” Murray said. “But they gotta be moved there, flown there, or delivered there. The Lost Seas had a berth in Terminal 35 and suddenly appeared there one day. There’s no record of its arrival or who flew it there. The quarantine order followed its arrival by a matter of hours. By then, the pilot was gone and we couldn’t move the damn thing. We can’t get near it. So the best we can do is seal off the area and hope at some point regulations loosen enough or the quarantine lifts so that we can deal with the ship.”

  “You don’t know who flew it in? What about security?”

  “Cleared,” Murray said. “The visuals stopped working that day. The backups failed. No voice prints registered.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Murray shrugged. “I’d have to dig into the records. Before your time, anyway.”

  “Before my time as what? A Retrieval Artist?”

  “Before your time in Traffic,” Murray said.

  Shock slid through Flint. “A quarantined vessel has been out in a public docking area for more than a decade?”

  “We send for updates every month, just like we’re supposed to, and every month, the status is unchanged.”

  “You knew who the ship’s owner was, though, right? Couldn’t she do anything?”

  “The ship’s registered to some big lawyer. Your murdered lady, right? A lawyer?’

  “She used to be,” Flint said, feeling numb.

  “Well, she always sent back some legal document, saying that we had no right to tamper with her ship. Which wasn’t exactly true, considering it’s got some kind of biocontaminate. But it was enough to scare the people in charge here. Not that they’d touch anything quarantined without following every single regulation to the letter.”

  Flint nodded. They wouldn’t. They didn’t dare. The port was the first line of defense against disease or contamination spreading in the Dome. Armstrong had always been very strict with incoming vessels and personnel to prevent contaminations, but had gotten worse two years ago after a deadly virus had nearly gotten loose in the dome.

  “Any way I can see the documents the lawyer sent?” he asked.

  “Any way I can get half the money you’ve made at your illegal job?” Murray sat at the desk again, the information flats spread out before him.

  “I’m sure it won’t matter,” Flint said. “She is dead.”

  “Lawyers never die,” Murray said. “Their manipulations live on long after them.”

  “True enough,” Flint said. “But they don’t create any new manipulations after going to the Courtroom in the Great Beyond.”

  Murray snorted. “You’re still as naïve as ever. I can’t let you near the thing. If you try to shut off my security, you’ll get flagged.”

  “Has anyone been on it since it docked?” Flint asked.

  “Nope, and no one’s going on it, not while it’s labeled this dangerous. So find some other thing to waste your time on. You’re not getting in there,” Murray said.

  Flint nodded. “Did you manage to access any of its systems from outside the ship?”

  Sometimes ship’s manifolds and transport logs could be downloaded by the port without accessing the ship at all.

  “I’d have to check.” Murray looked at the information flats meaningfully. For the first time, Flint wondered if Murray had taken them out for a reason.

  “Would you?” Flint asked.

  “Maybe,” Murray said. “If I get the time.”

  Flint smiled. “You’re a good man, Murray.”

  “And you’re an ingrate. You gotta promise not to be a stranger.”

  Flint promised, but he didn’t mean it. He still believed in this one of Paloma’s injunctions. He had to stay away from contacts, however distant. Because they’d betray him.

  Just like Paloma had.

  Sixteen

  Noelle DeRicci’s office wasn’t far from Nyquist’s, at least as Dome distances went. He only had to take a short walk from the Detective Division to her building, even though she worked outside the City Center Complex. She was part of the United Governments of the Moon, and yet somehow independent. He didn’t entirely understand the structure, even now, of the security department. He only knew that it could override any orders given by him, his boss, or his boss’s boss. Not even the mayor had more power than DeRicci did. He wasn’t even sure if, in a serious emergency, the governor-general had the power to override DeRicci.

  And he certainly wasn’t going to ask.

  He waited outside her office, in a reception area that had improved since the last time he was here. The last time, he’d been working on a case that he later learned was tied into an emergency that started on Mars and eventually threatened the Moon itself.

  He hoped the case he was working on now wouldn’t be that big.

  He sat in a blue overstuffed chair that leaned against a small expanse of wall. Most of the reception area was made up of windows that gave him a spectacular view of the city. DeRicci’s office, he knew, overlooked the damage done by the bomb blast of a year ago. He wondered why she had chosen that view when she had this one—rows and rows of pristine buildings, glinting in the fake sunlight of the dome. He suspected that, on those rare occasions when the city government let the dome become clear, she had an excellent view of the moonscape and the Earth beyond.

  Finally, the assistant told him that he could go into the main office now. He thanked her, stood, and gave himself a mental shake.

  DeRicci had made it clear that she wanted to talk with him as soon as possible. She had even set up a time when he hadn’t been able to come as expected.

  Then she kept him waiting for nearly an hour.

  Immediately seemed to have other meanings the higher up in authority a person went.

  The door to her office slid open, and he stepped inside. DeRicci stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side, looking at the very view he’d been thinking of. Disaster front and center
. How he would have hated it.

  The room smelled of coffee and green plants, scents he rarely found outside the richer parts of the dome. DeRicci wore a suit that seemed tailored to her muscular body. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but she was a striking one, with her dark curly hair and bright, intelligent eyes.

  He’d been attracted to her from the beginning, an emotion that always made him nervous. He’d seen too many colleagues misjudge a situation because of attraction.

  He never wanted to be one of them.

  “Detective,” DeRicci said as she turned. Her expression was soft, warm, and somehow distant.

  He didn’t remember that. But their last face-to-face meeting had been awkward. He’d fled because he hadn’t felt like he belonged.

  Her office had changed since then. The old décor had been see-through, the furniture almost invisible against the white carpet. Only the plants on the surfaces had defined them.

  Now there were fewer plants, and they looked sturdier, and the furniture looked like Earth-based antiques. Lots of wood, lots of upholstery.

  Solid. Strong. Like DeRicci herself.

  “Chief,” Nyquist said as he walked toward her, hand extended.

  She took his hand, shook it gently—something she hadn’t done before (before she had always crushed his fingers with her grip)—and let it go. “I prefer Noelle.”

  “Noelle, then.” He couldn’t have her call him by his first name. Only a handful of people had done that his entire life, and then they’d been close to him. He needed to keep this relationship professional.

  “I’d’ve come to the scene,” she said, leading him toward a couch with rather fragile curved wooden feet. “But I was told there was a ‘biochemical goo’ that later turned out to be harmless.”

  “We’re still not sure what we have,” he said. “But there were some early false alarms.”

  He sat down, feeling awkward. The easy flow between them that he remembered from a few months ago seemed to be gone. Maybe he had imagined it.

  “Update me,” she said.

  So he did. He told her about the scene, about the blood and the complete destruction. He didn’t tell her about Miles Flint, though, although he did tell her some of the conclusions he’d come to after looking at the same evidence that Flint had—that Paloma may have been killed near the elevator and the rest of the scene staged.