Paloma

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  The Dove wasn’t impressive. Or maybe Nyquist just didn’t like giant black ships that were built to resemble one kind of Earth bird and were named after another.

  When he’d first arrived, brandishing a warrant so that he could get into Paloma’s ship, no one would talk to him. It was almost as if he wasn’t even part of the police force. When he finally did get someone to pay attention, that person, an older man, had seemed angry he was asking about the Dove.

  “If you wanted the ship protected, you should’ve called us,” the man had said, and he had a point. After Nyquist had learned about the Dove, he should have called in an order to seal the ship. Of course, even that would have been too late. DeRicci had told him about the Dove only an hour before; it was everything he could do to assemble a team and get over here quickly. He hadn’t even thought of sealing the ship.

  Flint had been half a day ahead of him. And, according to the security footage, he had been inside the Dove for a long time. To make matters worse, he had spoken to a reporter just before he went inside his own ship, the Emmeline.

  Nyquist had a request in to a judge to seal off the Emmeline, as well. But he wanted to do that without Flint’s knowledge, something he wasn’t sure was possible under the rather loose laws governing ships in port.

  “You want us to go in first?” asked the woman beside him. She was tall and thin. Her name was Deepa Zengotita. She was one of the best in the department, and she specialized in information gathering from movable technology—ships, aircars, bullet trains. He had been lucky to get her on such short notice.

  “No,” Nyquist said. “Once you’ve cleared it, I want to join the effort.”

  Clearing it meant that a team member or a couple of team members went in first to make sure there were no surprises on board. Each investigative team did this differently. Nyquist had never worked with Zengotita, so he wasn’t sure what her procedure was.

  She had put together the rest of the team. Three men and another woman. None of them had worked on the crime scene at Paloma’s apartment. Nyquist had specifically requested a fresh team. He didn’t want this team going in with any preconceptions.

  He did, however, tell Zengotita that a possible suspect had gone into the ship this afternoon. She made the instant leap, knowing that any information accessed since the morning would be the first thing to focus on.

  The other woman approached the ship. Zengotita remained beside Nyquist. Security protocol insisted that any area where a suspect had gone after a crime had to be considered a potential booby trap. Too many detectives and crime scene techs had died going into a scene without protection.

  The other woman wore a uniform similar to HazMat gear, designed to protect her against whatever she found. Everyone else wore the standard-issue tech suits, protecting the scene from anything they dropped and protecting them from contaminated trace.

  She moved easily; even though she was the most junior member of the squad, she had a confidence that came from long practice. Before she reached up to touch the outer door, she examined it, using not just her eyes, but also her information chips and handheld scanners.

  Then she looked over her shoulder, and nodded at Zengotita.

  “Good luck,” Zengotita called, and from the shake in her voice, that wish was a superstition among the team. Had someone forgotten to say it once? Had someone died on that mission?

  Nyquist didn’t want to know. Even though he tried to have no superstitions either, he developed a few—double-checking the lock on his apartment door when he left each day; making certain he greeted the people he cared about whenever he saw them, even if they’d only been separated for a few hours; and touching the grip of his laser pistol before he went into any building, just to make sure he knew it was where it was supposed to be.

  The woman touched the hull door, opening it.

  “I hate this part,” Zengotita said to him softly.

  The rest of the team couldn’t hear her. They were setting up the exam ‘bots, making certain the interiors were empty and the exteriors were clean. All exam ‘bots got cleaned when they were returned to the lab, but it was good to check them in the field as well. No one wanted cross-contaminates.

  “Ships are the worst,” she continued, staring straight ahead, “because most of them have shielding, so we don’t know what’s inside. Even if we do know, things don’t always go according to plan. You know that guy who killed cops on a city train a few years back? That was us. They thought the site had been clear for two days, and then the next thing we know, he’s up from some kind of compartment, laser-rifle firing. I lost four good men that day.”

  “Dead?” Nyquist asked.

  She shook her head. “Two critical, but they made it. The others just couldn’t handle the stress. We can fix the physical part, but the folks who were on that team, with the exception of me and Naree Lindstrom, never got back into the field. Too much fear.”

  Nyquist understood. He had had close calls himself, and he thought of them too much. But he’d never admit that to one of the department shrinks. As long as he functioned on the job, he didn’t need special help, or so he told them.

  In reality, he figured he only had so much time to do his work before his system broke down, just like everyone else’s did. He’d do what he could while he could, and wouldn’t worry about the rest.

  “It’s taking a while,” he said.

  “She’s got to wait out the airlock. Who knows how long it’s timed for? The personal ships don’t follow any regular protocol. They—”

  An explosion resounded through the bay. Nyquist saw it before he heard it—light blowing outward, light filled with something, pieces—part of the ship? He couldn’t tell—and then the sound, deep and resonant.

  He grabbed Zengotita and threw her down, landing on top of her as the pieces – oh, God, they were bits and pieces of a person, the other team member, the woman who went in alone—rained around him.

  Another explosion sounded, and then one more.

  “We gotta move,” he said, pulling at Zengotita. “That ship might go.”

  Which was the least of his worries. If the ship went, then the blast walls inside the building would fall, and who knew where they’d land. He had to get out of the open and into the doorways, the only safe part of the bay.

  “My team…” Zengotita tried to turn in his arms. He wouldn’t let her. He used his full strength to drag her away.

  If the team lived, they’d get themselves out. If they hadn’t, they’d be found soon enough. It wasn’t like the six of them were in the middle of nowhere. They were in Terminal 25, the wealthiest section of the entire Port.

  Blood and other fluids continued to rain from above. How much liquid composed a single woman? Or was this rain something else, something deadly?

  He couldn’t tell. It smelled of blood and flesh and ozone, like something had burned, but he wasn’t sure if some of that scent came from the destroyed ship itself.

  Warm liquid ran down his face, coating him. His clothing was drenched. Zengotita continued to struggle in his arms. He clutched her so tightly, he wondered if she could breathe.

  It took forever to get up the dock. The floor was slick. Sirens had started to go off. Lights swirled, making it hard to see. An androgynous voice made some kind of announcement, but he couldn’t understand it. His ears had worked fine when Zengotita spoke (or had they? Had he merely guessed what she said? Because it was what he would have said in that circumstance? Or because he just expected her to be that kind of woman?), but they rang now, the other noises trumping the human voices.

  He nearly lost his balance, put out his hand, and caught the edge of the wall. It was slick, too, or maybe that was just his skin, covered with goo.

  Biochemical goo—wasn’t that the phrase used at Paloma’s building? Was this what they meant?

  But there had been no explosion there, right?

  Somehow, he reached the door frame and leaned against it, Zengotita still in his arms. He glance
d at her. Her eyes were open, unblinking, but he could feel her breathe. She was staring at the space yacht.

  He looked, too.

  The Dove was still intact, except for the main hatch, which had blown open. Inside, he could see lights—or it seemed that way. The air was filled with a fine red mist that covered everything and didn’t seem to want to dissipate.

  Of course it didn’t. The environmental systems had been turned off just in case something toxic had been released into the environment. With the systems shut down, the theory went, that something toxic wouldn’t get released into the rest of the port.

  But the Dove had been standing here, idle, for weeks, maybe months. Who knew what it had released?

  He blinked. Goo ran down his cheeks, but he didn’t wipe it away. Instead, he released his grip on Zengotita. She stayed beside him. Her team was sprawled against the floor, the ‘bots scattered.

  Had the explosion been that forceful? He wasn’t sure. But he knew that the woman—the lone team member to venture inside—hadn’t survived it.

  Which was odd, because Flint had. Flint had been in there hours earlier. Flint, who had just found out that Paloma was dead.

  Flint, who had gone to his own ship first.

  To get supplies?

  Had Miles Flint, former Space Traffic patrol officer, former City of Armstrong detective, set a trap guaranteed to kill anyone who entered the Dove?

  Was he that ruthless?

  Was he that desperate?

  Nyquist didn’t know. But he had to find out—and soon.

  Twenty-six

  The data retrieval was taking a long time.

  For some reason, Flint had thought it would only take a few seconds. But the HazMat team had been inside for fifteen minutes now, and he was still waiting.

  At least Wagner was gone. He stomped off, literally, shaking the floor as he marched away. Van Alen had chuckled beside Flint.

  “That’s his mad act,” she said. “It’s not his best routine, but it’s my favorite.”

  “Sounds like you two have had a lot of run-ins,” Flint said.

  “Enough,” she said. “And each one is memorable.”

  “You handled him well,” Flint said.

  “We did,” Van Alen said. “You surprised him. Not a lot of people do that.”

  “I suppose not.” Flint stared at the door. Wagner had surprised him too, arriving with a judge, ready to take care of the problem immediately, outside of the courtroom.

  “I will have you notice, however,” Van Alen said very softly, “that neither Justinian nor Judge Antrium knew about that little quirk of the law. The judge left happy, thinking we’re being good citizens. If Justinian knew what was going on, he’d’ve bought another judge, and everything would’ve stopped.”

  Flint glanced at her. “Another judge? For a purchased judge, Antrium didn’t perform very well.”

  “I’m not so sure he was purchased,” Van Alen said. “Maybe just borrowed.”

  Then she grinned. Flint smiled too, although he didn’t feel any real levity. The stresses of the day had started to get to him.

  He rocked on his heels, wishing the day was nearly done. Then the hatch opened and one of the HazMat team members leaned out. Another member hurried to the side of the ship. Flint hadn’t even seen the others who had been left behind. He had been too involved with Justinian Wagner, apparently, although the HazMat team’s protective clothing did blend in with the ship.

  The member took a bagged handheld and pointed it at the person on the ship. Flint sighed. He was going to get a copy of a copy of a copy of the information, but it would have to do.

  It was better than not getting the information at all.

  The hatch door closed, and the team member who hadn’t been on board brought the bagged handheld to Flint. Van Alen stopped him. The man, face flattened by the protective suit, waited patiently, handheld extended.

  “Is this everything?” she asked.

  “Everything in the main systems and stored in all the logical places. We haven’t been to the hold yet or looked to see if there are auxiliary systems. If there are, we’re required by the same law to give what we find to you. We’ll notify you, Mr. Flint.”

  “No,” Van Alen said. “You’ll notify me.”

  She took the handheld. Flint frowned. The information was his. He wanted to snatch the handheld from her and run off with it. But she had gotten him this far.

  “Very well,” the team member said. He half bowed at them, a courtly movement that suggested he wasn’t human after all, and then headed back to the Lost Seas.

  “Let’s download,” Flint said.

  “Not here,” Van Alen said. “Anything transmitted through the air here can be ruled public domain. If Wagner was waiting outside and he captured it, the law says that he has a right to that information. It’s as if he overheard a conversation.”

  “We’re not in Armstrong,” Flint said, knowing he probably shouldn’t argue law with her. “We’re in the port. Neutral territory.”

  “Really?” she asked. “Courts fall all ways on that one. There’s no accepted law. Just so-called common knowledge, which is wrong. We’re taking this to my office, and downloading the information there—”

  A huge bang interrupted her, followed by warning sirens and flashing lights. An overhead voice announced a ship breach, possible contamination, and warned that environmental systems had shut down.

  Flint could feel it already—the growing heat as the temperature regulators stopped. The air would last quite a while in here, but it would become uncomfortable.

  And since this had been triggered by a ship breach, the call for evacuation would start at any moment.

  He grabbed Van Alen’s hand. “Come on.”

  “What the hell is this?” she asked.

  “One of those weird emergencies,” he said. “We have to get out of here before they decide to lock us in permanently or initiate a stampede.”

  “A stampede?” she asked.

  “A total port evacuation,” he said. “I’ve seen them before. They’re not pretty.”

  He was shouting over the repeated automatic announcement. The lights were flashing orange, white, and blue—code for possible biohazard, a call for the HazMat teams and Space Traffic officers to check with their leaders for instructions, and a count-down before the interior walls fell, protecting the affected area of the port.

  “This is bad, isn’t it?” Van Alen yelled.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, but so softly she probably couldn’t hear him. “This is as bad as it gets.”

  Twenty-seven

  The doors had shut, sirens were blaring—Nyquist could barely hear them through his shocked ears—and lights were flashing. A red haze coated everything. Nyquist swayed as he surveyed the scene, knowing he had to act, but not sure how.

  His ears weren’t the only thing that suffered from shock. He did, too. And he couldn’t. Not now.

  Zengotita leaned against him. She was warm and felt fragile. Like him, she stared at her team.

  She was almost unrecognizable. She was coated in fluids, mostly red turning black (that had to be blood), although there were several other colors, as well. Human fluids? He couldn’t tell. It wasn’t his job.

  He was just investigating.

  Investigating.

  God, his brain was on autopilot. “I need your handheld,” he said to her.

  Zengotita frowned at him. At least, he thought that’s what she was doing. She might have been staring at him blankly. Her face was nearly unrecognizable, her hair plastered against it, the streaks of goo running down like too-thick water.

  He held out his hand, miming holding an exam computer. “Your handheld,” he said again, very slowly.

  He could hear himself—the words sounded hollow, echoey, from the aftereffects of a blast. She wouldn’t be able to hear that. She might not even hear the warning sirens, which sounded far away, but which had to be on so loud that they were palpable.


  Finally, she fumbled against her side, found the handheld, and scrubbed the screen. She knew what he wanted. They had to know what this stuff was made of.

  She pressed the sides, turned the thing toward her, and winced. Was she injured? He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t even tell if he was.

  He leaned so that he could see the small screen. It was working. Chemical codes flared across it, information written in a language he—a lowly Humanities major with a masters in criminal procedures—didn’t understand.

  Her lips moved. He shook his head, felt slightly dizzy, and decided not to do that again. So he shrugged.

  He was right. His hearing was damaged.

  “I can’t hear you,” he said, as if she could hear him.

  She thrust the handheld at him. He stared at it, expected more of those chemical codes. He got something like that—a composition chart, all in CO2 and similar notations.

  He almost shook his head again, remembered, and handed her the handheld. Then he shrugged.

  She tapped the screen and handed it back.

  Composition:

  Unknown human female. DNA not in registry.

  Assume disease-ridden AMoP (examination continuing).

  Blood, brain matter, fecal matter…

  He couldn’t read any more. He thrust it back at her.

  AMoP meant “as a matter of practice.” All bodily fluids from an unknown source were considered disease-ridden until proven otherwise.

  Zengotita tapped it, then handed it to him again.

  Secondary composition:

  Metal (examination continuing), oil, chips

  (examination still continuing)…

  The bomb. Or the ship itself. Something else, but nothing dangerous. Except the body parts. He shuddered, and looked back out at the mess.

  The red haze still hung in the air. The lighting was strange: the flashing oranges and yellows made the large dock visible, but the regular overheads were off now, as if someone had cut the power.