Beyond the Rim (Rebels and Patriots Book 2)

by A. G. Claymore

  “So the law is for sale here?” Paul asked.

  Ava snorted. “Not to the extent it is in the Imperium but, yes, it’s for hire. Here, anyone can engage the services of a Justice. Even if our family could have afforded the services of an Inspector from the Eye, we’d never even be able to get their attention.

  “Sure, your fees are paid from the Imperial Exchequer, but you and your colleagues all work for the rich and powerful.”

  “What’s the crime distro like here?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “About what you’d expect,” she admitted. “The poor are victimized more than the wealthy and they mostly can’t afford justice.”

  She leaned forward. “But the poor don’t have to stay that way. We’re not living in a post-expansion Imperium that needs to squeeze its own people to maintain a bloated infrastructure. The poorest person can rise here, and they often do. If you hadn’t met Julius Nathaniel, do you really think you’d be anything more than an aging non-com, looking forward to his retirement apartment out on the Rim somewhere?”

  The standard parting gift from the Emperor to his loyal Marines was a multifunction room three meters squared by two meters high. A sizable part of that was dedicated to the mandatory weapons rack. Marines were always retired to the Rim in order to keep a steady stream of combat-trained citizens near the trouble spots.

  The room came with a bunk, two chairs and a self-explanatory hole in the floor. You couldn’t quite stand in a home like that, but you could at least sit in a proper chair without bowing your head. That was a damn sight more than most citizens ever attained.

  It was also a far cry from the high, vaulted ceilings of his luxury suite on Home World and he knew he owed it all to luck and patronage. It burned to be reminded of that.

  Paul felt several retorts form in his mind, but every one of them failed the test of logic. Despite the prestige of his titles, he was still in the effective employ of the Nathaniel family. They’d even helped ensure his own enrichment so he wouldn’t have to take any distracting cases just to make ends meet.

  A gilded cage.

  Only a few hours and his big sister was right back to work, picking apart his carefully constructed self-delusions. “Some things never change,” he said ruefully. “Show me what you have so far.”

  She nodded. “I have the security holos showing the man who came to tell me they had her and what they expected of me. He wore a facial mask and a voice modulator so we don’t have an ID on him.”

  “What about his citizen’s chip?” Paul asked. “I thought everybody had them.”

  “And the criminals can scramble them, when they want to,” Ava said simply. “They’re only citizens when they need to be.”

  “Nobody’s tried to reconstruct his voice?”

  “Waste of time, Paul. This wasn’t a cheap novelty scrambler. It changed his voice in so many random ways, the best processing labs on the planet wouldn’t be able to put it back together.”

  “Give me a minute.” Paul leaned on the table and queried the various signals bombarding the seemingly rustic terrace. It didn’t take long to find his sister’s security system and his quantum core let him slip inside with ridiculous ease.

  Roanoke might have a better quality of life, but its tech industry was definitely lagging behind the Imperium in some aspects. His sister would likely have one of the better security systems, given her high profile and obvious wealth, but it was still child’s play for his implants. He doubted quantum chips even existed out here, aside from his own, of course.

  He found the recording and set his implant to work on the voice sample. He was aware of the glance between Ava and Julia with the latter giving a reassuring nod.

  It didn’t take much longer than the nod.

  “I have his voice,” Paul told them. “I assume a Justice is authorized to compare voice prints against some kind of planetary database?”

  A dazed nod. “Yes, but how did you unscramble his voice so quickly?”

  He grinned, tapping his cheek. “This kept inspector has the best quantum core the Santa Clarans can produce. The Nathaniels might be conniving bastards, but they reward loyalty.”

  “Shit!” Ava muttered. “Even in the Imperium, those are rare. You’d better keep that processor a secret, or we’re likely to find you with half your head missing. Thing like that’s bound to be worth a ton of credits to the right buyer.

  “And Julia’s right,” she added. “When you’re done eating, we’ll arrange separate transport to Ravenna for each of you.”

  Flushing Game

  Paul stepped out of the registry office, his new citizen’s chip still itching under the skin of his wrist. He’d never seen a city like this one. It seemed few people lived far from direct sunlight, even though the buildings soared several kilometers into the sky.

  Ravenna looked like a stand of thick marsh stalks, where an Imperial city would have looked like a massive monolithic mass. It had none of the oppressive weight.

  An exuberant network of walkways and transit maglev-rails connected the buildings at various levels, bracing the buildings and allowing easy access throughout the city at all levels.

  He walked to the middle of an empty walkway and, when the signals from the city’s monitor net were at their weakest, he used his implants to investigate his new chip.

  The signal was easy enough to replicate and the chip itself, though secured by local standards, wasn’t a challenge for one of the Imperium’s best CPU implants. Paul easily mapped the chip architecture and tasked his implant to replicate it.

  Now he waited patiently for a flyer to come by. Given the bustling nature of Ravenna, he didn’t have to wait long. A passenger vehicle passed within ten meters of his position, making no noise aside from the hiss of the air it pushed aside in its progress.

  As the vehicle reached its closest point, the engines, pushing against the planet’s magnetic field, caused just enough interference to mask Paul’s intentions. He sent a directed, highly-focused burst that fried the data storage circuits of his new chip and simultaneously began routing a copy of his citizen information to the chip’s query-response beacon from his own CPU.

  It was the same way he’d been able to control the output from his old IFF transponder chip, left over from his time as a cop with the Marines.

  To the monitor net, it would simply seem like the same flicker he’d noticed in other chips. They were glitchy around EM engines.

  Now he could move about the planet as a citizen, or he could go dark, sending no query response at all. If he wanted to investigate Saoirse’s disappearance, he needed to manage his footprint. If her captors found out what he was up to, they might decide to get rid of her.

  He activated a virtual window and opened the city map. There were eighteen Justice Bureaus in the city and one of them was two levels down and slightly to the north. He would have had a quick, half centi-day stroll, but he needed to descend two levels and that meant backtracking for an extra centi-day.

  He looked around, wondering if he’d be noticed dropping from level to level, relying on his augments to accomplish the task. With a rueful smile, he pushed the idea from his mind. Keeping a low profile didn’t mean hopping from bridge to bridge like a monkey.

  And, he reminded himself, this city was a place where a person could actually enjoy a slightly longer walk. He strolled along, taking in the sights.

  Birds squabbled over nesting rights in a tree with a wide, flattened canopy. The green leaves were roughly spheroidal in shape, most likely a member of the Comorphidae family, whose species used the same structures for both photosynthesis and seed production.

  He crossed a small ornamental bridge over a burbling creek lined with smooth river stone. He caught a silvery flash in the water as a fish leapt out at an insect and wondered, not for the first time, whether Roanoke was really behind the Imperium in overall quality of life. They may not have anti-matter weapons or quantum cores, but they had a sense of style that had long died out in t
he Imperium.

  Where in the thousands of worlds paying tribute to the Childe Rolande, would he find a soothing little creek on a walkway fifteen hundred meters above ground level?

  He took a deep appreciative breath of the cool late-morning air before moving on. A spiraling ramp with a wide radius took him close to several buildings on his way down and he was surprised to see, not only balconies on residential structures, but also cooking facilities.

  A man grilling something gave him a slightly suspicious look and Paul realized he was staring. The idea of common citizens cooking their own food had shocked him.

  In the Imperium, it was illegal to prepare your own food. Only licensed professionals were allowed to cook and, of course, render the taxes, not only for the foodstuffs sold, but for the skilled labor of cooking as well.

  Any citizen whose credit record showed an unexplainable absence of meal debits would be fined an amount that equaled twice the total average cost of the unbought meals. Nobody thought to question it because most people had no idea how to cook.

  Needless to say, the average citizen couldn’t afford good food and obesity was rampant.

  Which led to the taxes rendered to the Emperor by doctors…

  He realized that it also meant citizens of Roanoke must also have time on their hands. Between work and sleeping, his own parents would never have had the time to spend cooking a meal, not to mention the time it would take to find the ingredients in the first place.

  Did they have stores or markets that sold food here?

  He grinned as he approached the Justice Bureau, knowing what Ava would say if she were here with him. You’re not in the Imperium anymore, little brother.

  The door to the office hissed open and he stepped inside. To call it a Bureau might be a tad grandiose. It was roughly five meters squared. It was bisected by a service counter with just enough room behind the counter for one clerk as well as a cubicle that Paul assumed was for calls of nature.

  The clerk, a young man in his twenties, looked up from a holo movie. “Good morning, sir. How can I help you today?” he droned in the standard voice used by those who clearly wished they were doing something more important.

  “I’m applying to be commissioned as a Justice,” Paul replied politely.

  The clerk nodded at a scanner and Paul waved his wrist over the small device, his CPU forwarding his true identity through the partially fried chip.

  The clerk’s attitude changed immediately. “Yes!” He pumped a fist in the air, causing Paul to take a step back. “I won! I can’t believe it!” His bored smile was replaced with a wide grin.

  Paul looked behind himself, wondering if he’d missed seeing a courier slip in behind him with a winning lottery notice or something. He turned back to the man. “What are you talking about?”

  The clerk gestured at Paul. “The pool,” he crowed. “Nearly two thousand credits. There’s eighteen of us and, when we heard an inspector from the old world had showed up out here, we figured you’d be coming in for a commission sooner or later.

  “We each kicked in a hundred credits and I get the pot!” He whooped with delight.

  “Yeah,” Paul replied with as much fake enthusiasm as he could muster. “That’s great, alright.” He leaned in closer. “About that commission…”

  “Oh, yeah.” The clerk brought up a holo screen. “I’m supposed to do this whole psych scan on you but I’m not about to risk my money just because you might have been mean to kittens or something.” His fingers danced through the menus with practiced ease.

  “Girlfriend’s not gonna believe this,” he muttered.

  “So, show her the credit balance?” Paul suggested. “Or buy her something nice.”

  “Yeah,” the clerk enthused. “How about this! Here I am chatting about girlfriends with the hard-core inspector from the Eye. The guy who strangled that senator dude right on the senate floor.”

  “Yeah… yeah that’s cool alright,” Paul agreed dryly. “The commission?” He’d already noticed the designation as it funneled through his new chip and into the buffer he’d set up in his CPU but, the ordinary guy without an incredibly expensive chip in his head wouldn’t have known that.

  The clerk waved at the scanner. “Check it out, Justice Grimm.”

  Paul waved his wrist over the scanner a second time and his image and name appeared next to the wreathed insignia of a Justice of Roanoke.

  “You have access to the code of conduct, the citizen database, the planetary monitor net,” the clerk droned, returning, out of habit, to his bored voice. “Justice for all,” he intoned, deadpan, “as long as you’ve got the money.”

  He shut down the holo screen. “Now, unless you’ve got any questions, I’m gonna close up shop and go collect a nice little payday! You can find a good outfitter just up the walk.”

  Paul stepped out of the small shop and walked over to the recommended store. He’d rather connect to the city systems directly, but he figured that would be a dead giveaway for his implants. It wouldn’t be hard to determine he was accessing the data without a tablet. If Saoirse’s captors knew he was here, they’d be looking for data access that didn’t link to a tablet ID.

  “Finally, a new customer!” a man with salt and pepper hair exclaimed as Paul walked in. “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard the same old stories from my regulars.” He came out from behind the counter, extending a hand. “Name’s Tim Balach.”

  “Paul Grimm.” He shook the hand.

  “No kidding?” Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “And here I thought you’d be taller, maybe have fangs or something.”

  Paul chuckled. “Had them removed. Couldn’t chew gum without choking myself half to death.”

  A judicious nod. “Always the problem with fangs. I suppose you’d be looking for a good solid start-up package?”

  “Gotta spend credits to earn credits, right?”

  Tim grinned. “I’ll remember you said that when we talk price!” He led Paul over to a display case. “Most of your colleagues use the Mark Eight data point.” He reached in through the secur-shield upper surface and pulled out a display stand.

  “I’ve got a shoulder holster with a special pocket for the CPU,” he explained, picking up the rectangular shaped object and handing it to Paul. “The emitters go on your clothes for the Mark Eight but the Mark Nine can project through anything that’s woven.”

  Paul handed it back. “Let’s look at the Nine.”

  Tim nodded his approval. “Far more versatile, unless you’re wearing a raincoat.” He pulled out the upgraded unit, which looked almost exactly like the Eight. “Fits the same holster and you can attach the emitters as well. Saves having to shift the damn things when you put on a jacket.”

  “Do you have holsters for this?” Paul pulled his pistol out of his pocket and set it on the secur-shield.

  Tim let out a long low whistle. “Blind me! Is that a Nuttall Special?” He picked it up and ejected the magazine before ensuring the chamber was clear. “My daddy had one of these. Wouldn’t sell it for any offer, then the shop ended up in trouble and he had to decide between the gun and the livelihood.”

  He looked up at Paul. “Would you mind if I tried it out? Got a range in the back.”

  Paul nodded, gesturing toward the back door. “How much is ammunition?”

  Tim waved off the question but he answered anyway. “Three mil caseless is cheap enough. I’ll throw in a couple of packs for free, seeing as you’re letting me burn off some of yours.” He led the way into a long, narrow room with a shot-trapping field at the far end.

  He inspected the magazine before sliding it into place above the barrel. “Hostile rifleman,” he commanded.

  A holo image of a man appeared at the far end, a heavy weapon leaned against his hip. His upper torso was massive. The image began to swing his weapon up to a firing position but Tim was far faster. He brought the Nuttall Special to bear on the target, squeezed the trigger and then put the weapon back on safe to see
the results.

  The holo image froze and slid up to stop directly in front of the two men.

  “Good tumble,” Tim mused, peering at the target’s torso. “Second round passed through the heart twice after bouncing around the rib cage a bit. Old Nuttall senior had a magic touch with the small arms, alright. Just enough punch to get into a target but not so much that it just passes through.”

  “Not so good against armor, though,” Paul told him.

  “Shouldn’t be a concern out here,” Tim replied cheerfully, resetting the holo target.

  “What sort of weapon is he holding?”

  “That’s a heavy rifleman. They start ’em out young and build up the muscles. If you don’t look like this fella,” he nodded at the hologram, “then you probably can’t handle the weapon for more than a couple shots. Fire team,” Tim ordered as he switched off the safety. He now faced three armed opponents. Two of them were heavy riflemen and the third – Paul assumed he was a spotter, from the optics on his helmet – held a standard assault rifle. “The heavy rifleman carries a linearly accelerated rifle for use against…” He fired three bursts, starting with the more nimble spotter. “… hard targets.”

  “Good target prioritizing,” Paul admitted. “Something tells me you’ve been in similar situations before.”

  Tim nodded as he watched the targets slide up. “Used to ship out on the Kara McKlintok. Ground based raids, mostly. She wasn’t the kind of ship you wanted to take into the black all alone.”

  He cleared the breech and handed the weapon back to Paul before taking a look at his targets. Again, the damage had mostly come from the rounds tumbling inside each victim.

  “Well, Paul, the holster for a Nuttall Special doesn’t come cheap ‘cause they’re handmade,” Tim warned, “but I can let you have one for something close to the price of a mass-produced version, if you agree to come here for your ammo…”

  Paul grinned. “And maybe give you the chance to fire off a few lighthearted volleys for old time’s sake?”