by C.S. Stinton
* *
Bistro Epsilon was a remarkable display of Hardveur finery. At last Ramirez could understand the point of the city’s sweeping lines, cold metals, austere height and reliance upon shimmering glass. From this high up it wasn’t a clumped, cold mass, it was a shining jewel the sight of which could be enjoyed out of the tall windows that permitted a benevolent gaze down at the lower towers. The inside of the restaurant itself was all silver elegance and gentle curves, the roof high enough to allow the acclaimed string quartet’s playing to reach all corners of the room without echoing.
She had a glass of superb wine imported from Ta’lab’s lunar vineyards in her hand. The remains of some truly magnificent Manatian asparagus served with Nuada-bred Terran duck and wild white Italian truffles were on the plate in front of her, a dish whose price and ingredients had challenged her poker face. And she was sat across the table from the intelligent and charismatic lead suspect in her terrorism investigation.
Small talk had reigned so far. She’d asked him how his meeting the previous afternoon had gone and received no genuine information, just a well-told anecdote about how the CEO’s dog stealing Ms Singh’s pad stylus had put the whole affair on hold for ten minutes before he could be cajoled out from behind the sofa. That had led to a conversation about Thor traffic, which had prompted a discussion on the perils of commercial interplanetary travel.
He was easy to talk to. He listened far better than most people, a trait she only noticed because she was trained to listen well herself. He picked up on small things and used them to make himself seem interested - or, more valuably, make the person he spoke to feel interesting. And so it was a clunky non sequitur when he put his wine glass down and said, ‘I was surprised to learn the daughter of Maria Ramirez is in the Fleet.’
Ramirez quirked an eyebrow. ‘One of the daughters,’ she said. ‘My sister’s a journalist with the Titan Tribune.’
‘I can understand a draw to the press,’ said Locke, reaching to refill her glass. ‘But to the military?’
She was still in her uniform. Tycho had scoffed at the idea but there was nothing else in her bag appropriate to wear to a place like this, and she suspected Director Tau wouldn’t be too understanding about case expenses including a designer dress. She wasn’t yet sure if she found standing out uncomfortable in this restaurant, or if the uniform was a comforting, protective shield. ‘You worked for my mother. You know she served.’
‘And she spoke very critically of the Fleet and, until the war, argued for defence cuts and downsizing.’
‘My mother wore a uniform to fight for democracy. By the time she left the service, the Fleet had become a tool of politicians to prove how patriotic they were. You might notice she threw her weight behind the military when the war started.’
‘And the sweeping reforms.’ Locke’s lips twitched. ‘But you‘ve been in the service longer than the war.’
You‘ve done your homework. Ramirez considered she could play dumb a little more, force him to be more blunt in his line of enquiry. Had it been something less personal, she might have. ‘I‘m a soldier,’ she said, reaching for her wine glass. ‘But I‘m also a law enforcement officer. I believe, as my mother did, the Fleet can be a tool of great change across the Confederacy.’ It had been a bone of contention between the two of them when she had said she wanted to attend the Naval Academy. Her mother wanted her to go to university on Odin, study politics or economics, follow in her footsteps like the more wayward Ana never would.
She’d been younger then. Her mother had enjoyed the unpleasant sensation of being beaten by herself, her daughter listening to her legacy as a war hero more than her common sense of the present day. But in the end Maria Ramirez had listened, understood, and supported her daughter - and so Graham Locke was not going to find the weak spot he prowled around.
‘You don’t seem to agree,’ she told him.
Locke opened his hands. ‘I never argue for budget cuts, for taking soldiers away from the front line. I know there’s a war going on. I just don’t think the military is sacrosanct and I don’t believe everything should be given up to support the war.’
‘If we lose to the Null, we all die. This isn’t the Civil War. A farmer on Charity lives the exact same way he did sixty years ago, democracy be damned. But the Null will kill him.’
Locke waved a hand around the room. ‘It might be easy for us to pretend that we have blinkers on up here, on top of the world. But you can walk around Hardveur from top to bottom and hardly anyone who’s never worn a uniform has seen a Null. They know about the war. They feel the war. They feel their belts tightening, they feel paranoia shrinking in. But life still goes on for them. Life has to go on for them.’
‘Not at the expense of the Confederacy’s capacity to defend itself. And them.’
‘I know you‘re not arguing for every single resource to be thrown at the war,’ he said, and paused for impact with a sip of wine. She knew the trick. Make her hesitate, wait on tenterhooks for his wisdom, his punch-line. ‘Else you wouldn’t be a Marshal. You’d be, I don’t know, a Marine like your strapping partner.’
Really done your homework. That was concerning. If Locke knew who Harrigan was, he’d know he was a former Marine. He’d know about his criminal record.
‘A civilian who doesn’t live in the Vega System or in Altair’s outer ring is still more likely to be killed by their neighbour than by the Null,’ he continued. ‘That’s the OCMS’s favourite statistic, isn’t it? Everyone’s eyes going to the front line means nobody’s watching our backs. Except for people like you and me.’
Ramirez drank her wine to clamp down on the surge of anger. ‘What do you think you‘re achieving?’ she asked once she trusted herself to speak calmly. ‘Redirecting our resources, HCPD resources?’
‘I‘m not,’ said Locke without missing a beat. ‘Ragnarok is.’
‘A terrorist organisation using your protests to obfuscate their attacks. How can you justify that?’
‘A terrorist organisation using military-grade ordnance in their attacks. How do you, a military officer, justify that?’ Locke cocked his head. ‘Even worse, I‘ve not done anything wrong. But if military rifles are landing in criminal hands, then it certainly sounds like someone in a uniform’s made a mistake.’
She hesitated. ‘How did you know about the rifles?’
Locke’s expression flickered. ‘A man in my position hears things. All sorts of people are sympathetic to my cause, Commander Ramirez. Nobody likes the taxes, the curbing of the press’s freedom, the sweeping invasions of privacy, all sanctioned by the Senate in the name of the war. You know the violations of civil liberties justified by the Null invasion, ma‘am. Your department is an embodiment of half of them.’
‘A man in your position hears things,’ she repeated, ignoring his jibe. ‘Like things about Commissioner Beyer? That was why we‘re here, after all, wasn’t it, Mister Locke? Not to debate politics.’
‘An old habit.’ He gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he lifted his glass aloft. ‘If you‘ve met Commissioner Beyer I imagine you have half the story so far.’
‘I have only guesswork.’
‘Nonsense. A woman in your line of work doesn’t have guesses, she has evidence. But you can’t be rude about the local police chief, I appreciate that.’ Locke put his glass down and leaned forward, clasping his hands together. ‘Commissioner Beyer is barely better than the crooks he hunts down. The only thing the man likes more than a quiet life is lining his wallet and he’ll do anything for either. Getting him to care about drug-runners coming in and out of Thor was all but impossible when I was Mayor, and that was because half of them had him in their pockets.’
‘Even if you have evidence of this,’ said Ramirez with a quirked eyebrow, ‘that’s not much good to me unless he’s in Ragnarok’s.’ It was only half-true. She was keeping a poker face with the hope Locke would give her something more useful, yet the notion that Beyer was crooked was as disple
asing as it was unsurprising. But even if he could provide her with evidence she wasn’t here to uproot a Police Chief. That would take months of investigations and hearings and the powers of the Marshals were too untested for her to try to remove him arbitrarily. The public backlash would be like a storm.
‘All I can say is that you shouldn’t trust him,’ said Locke.
‘Whereas I should trust you?’
Their main course arrived then, and Locke kept a polite smile on his face as the plates were brought out, made a joke which had the waitress - who balanced platters on elbows and poured wine with the twist of the bottle to show she was no neophyte - blushing, star-struck even in the dining hall of the stars. And by the time they were digging into their meals, good enough to make one forget about terrorists and crooked cops, Locke was wearing a smile which, in and of itself, was almost enough reason to trust him.
But she was no waitress, seasoned or otherwise.
‘We are in agreement, Commander Ramirez,’ he said, ‘on a great many things. And I know you would be rather upset if all protest against the government stopped.’
‘Not when the protests include attacks killing cops, soldiers, and civilians.’
‘Nobody regrets that more than I,’ said Locke, though the words sounded rehearsed. ‘But is that the price we pay for safety? Utter silence, utter subjugation? “We are told it is safer this way. Safer if we do not think for ourselves, speak for ourselves, act for ourselves. It must be so convenient that we are at our safest when utterly subservient.”‘
‘You don’t need to quote my mother at me,’ said Ramirez, quirking an eyebrow. ‘I assure you I did that to win arguments with her.’
Locke gave a smile, and this one lit up his face in a way the others hadn’t, the corners of his eyes crinkling. ‘She used to hate it when I did it to her in the office.’
‘No other mother had all their comments a matter of such public record. Or, that was what she used to grumble.’ Ramirez hid her expression behind a mouthful of dinner, and the silence was ponderous. ‘She wouldn’t have wanted protests for a just cause to stop. Not because of the government, not because of terrorists.’
‘I notice the condition you placed there. Do you think my cause is just?’
‘I‘m a military officer. I cannot get involved in these sorts of campaigns.’
Locke opened his hands. ‘I‘m not asking for your endorsement, Commander. Just your opinion.’
‘Actually, Mister Locke, you‘re asking for my mother’s opinion. And I can’t give you that. I am aware that my mother, as a general, as a senator, as a governor, was a huge influence upon many people, and that you looked up to her is heartening. But I cannot justify your actions for you. All I can do is hunt a terrorist organisation so people don’t die any more - and, yes. So you can march.’
There was an edge in her voice she couldn’t dull, and regret flashed in Locke’s eyes. ‘I haven’t meant to put you in a difficult position.’
‘My job, Mister Locke, is a difficult position.’
He reached to refill her glass. ‘Then allow me to do what I can,’ he said. ‘Enough of business, or city politics. I understand and appreciate you are here for work - here in the city, here at this restaurant. But we have some fine food getting cold, some good wine not being drunk, and courses left after that.’ He picked up his own wine glass and leaned forwards, gaze curious. ‘So tell me more about the life of the Marshals.’