Daig had a fan-fold file open on his lap, one hand holding in the slips of vinepaper, the other gripping a thick data-slate. “What pattern?”
“Exactly,” Yosef replied. “There isn’t one. Every time we’ve had a crazed lunatic go on a killing spree like this, there’s been some kind of logic to it, no matter how twisted. Someone is murdered because they remind the killer of their abusive stepfather, or because the voices in their head told them that all people who wear green are evil…” He pointed a finger at the file. “But what’s the link here? Latigue, Norte and the others? They’re from all different walks of life, men and women, old and young, tall and short…”
Yosef shook his head. “If there’s a commonality between them, I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Daig said flatly, “there will be plenty of people willing to throw in their half-baked theories about it. After Latigue’s death, you can bet the watch-wire will be buzzing with this.”
Yosef cursed under his breath; with everything else that had been on his mind, he hadn’t stopped to think that if the Eurotas Consortium had become involved with the case, then of course the Iestan news services would have got wind of it into the bargain. “As if they don’t have enough doom and gloom to put on the watch-wire already,” he said. “By all means, let’s add to everyone’s woes with the fear of a knife in the belly from every dark alleyway.”
Daig shrugged. “Actually, it might take people’s minds off the bigger issues. Nothing like a killer of men on the loose in your own backyard to keep you focussed.”
“That all depends on how large your backyard is, don’t you think?”
“Good point.” Yosef’s cohort paged through the panes of data installed on the slate with solemn slowness. He paused on one slab of dense text, his eyes narrowing. “Hello. This is interesting.” He handed the device over. “Look-see.”
“Blood work,” noted Yosef. It was the analysis reports from the site of the Latigue murder, multiple testing on samples that confirmed, yes, the fluids all over the walls of the gondola had once been contained inside the unfortunate clerk. At least, almost all of them. There was a rogue trace right in the middle of the scan reports, something picked up by chance from one of the medicae servitors. A single blood trace that did not match the others.
Yosef felt a slight thrill as he absorbed this piece of information, but he stamped down on it immediately. He didn’t dare jinx the chance that Daig might have just pointed out something that could be their first important break.
“It doesn’t tally with any of the previous deaders, either,” said the other reeve. He reached for the intercom horn. “I’ll comm the precinct, get them to run this up to the citizen database…”
But just as quickly as it had lit, Yosef’s brief spark of excitement guttered out and died as he read a notation appended to the bottom of the information pane. “Don’t waste your time. Tisely got her people to do that already.”
“Ah,” Daig’s expression remained neutral. “Should have expected that. She’s efficient that way. No joy, then?”
Yosef shook his head. The notification for a citizen ident read Not Found. That meant that the killer was unregistered, which was a rare occurrence on Iesta Veracrux, or else they were from somewhere else entirely. He chewed on that thought for a moment. “He’s an off-worlder.”
“What?”
“Our cutter. Not an Iestan.” Daig eyed him. “That’s a bit of a leap.”
“Is it? It explains why his blood’s not in the database. It explains how he’s doing this and leaving no traces.”
“Off-world technology?”
Yosef nodded. “I admit it’s thin, but it’s a direction. And with Telemach breathing down our necks, we need to be seen to be proactive. It’s that or sit around waiting for a fresh kill.”
“We could just hold off,” suggested the other man. “I mean, if Eurotas has his own operatives inbound… Why not let them come in and take a pass over it? They’re bound to have better resources than we do.”
He gave his cohort an acid look. “Remember that engraving on your warrant rod that talks about ‘to serve and protect’? We’re called investigators for a reason.”
“Just a thought,” said Daig.
Yosef sensed something unsaid in his cohort’s words and studied him. To anyone else, Segan’s dour expression would have seemed no different from any of the other dour expressions he wore day in and day out; but the other reeve had been partnered with him for a long time, and he could read moods in the man that others missed completely. “What aren’t you telling me, Daig?” he asked. “Something about this case has been gnawing at you since we had it dropped on us.” Yosef leaned closer. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
Daig made a brief spluttering sound that was the closest he ever came to a laugh, but then he sobered almost instantly. After a moment of silence he looked away. “We’ve seen some things, you and I,” he said. “This is different, though. It feels different. Don’t ask me to be objective about it, because I can’t. I think there’s more here than just… human madness.”
Yosef made a face. “Are you talking about xenos? There’s not an alien alive in this entire sector.”
Daig shook his head. “No.” He sighed. “I’m not sure what I’m talking about. But… After Horus…”
Once more, the reeve felt the sudden tension that the name brought with it. “If I’m sure of anything, I’m damned sure that he didn’t do it.”
“There are stories, though,” Daig went on. “People talk about worlds that have declared for the Warmaster, worlds that go silent soon after. Those who make it out before the silence comes down, they’ve said things. Talked about what happened on those planets.” He tapped a sheaf of crime scene picts. “Things like this. I know you’ve heard the same.”
“It’s just stories. Just scared people.” Yosef wondered if he sounded convincing. He took a breath. “And it has no bearing on what we’re doing here.”
“We’ll see,” Daig said darkly.
A thought occurred to Yosef and he reached for the intercom horn. “Yes, we will.” He pressed the stud that would allow him to talk to the coleopter’s pilot. “Change of plans,” he said briskly, “we’re not going back to the precinct house. Take us to the Eurotas compound.”
The pilot acknowledged the command and the flyer pivoted into a banking turn, the pitch of the rotors deepening.
Daig gave him a confused look. “The trader’s men won’t be here for another couple of days yet. What are you doing?”
“Everyone wants to keep Eurotas happy, so it seems,” Yosef told him. “I think we should use that to our advantage.”
THEY LANDED ON a tree-lined transit pad just within the walls of the Consortium’s compound. In a definite attempt to stand out from the more typical Iestan architectural styles of the other great manses in the area, the Eurotas house was modelled on the Cygnus school of design, reminiscent of many reunification-era colony palaces from the early decades of the Great Crusade. It was an open, summery building, full of courtyards and cupolas, with fountains and small pocket gardens that were at odds with the cool pre-winter chill of the day.
The two reeves were barely to the foot of the coleopter’s drop-ramp when they were met by a narrow woman in the bottle-green and silver of the rogue trader’s livery. Standing behind her at a discreet distance were two men in the same garb, but both of them were twice her body mass with faces hidden behind the blank glares of info-visors. Yosef saw no weapons visible on them, but he knew they had to be carrying. One of the many tenets of the Consortium’s corporate sovereignty throughout the Taebian Sector allowed Eurotas to ignore planetside laws the Void Baron considered to be detrimental to his business, and that included Iestan weapon statutes.
The woman spoke before Yosef could open his mouth, firmly determined to set the rules of the impromptu visit immediately. “My name is Bellah Gorospe, I’m a Consortium liaison executive. We’ll need to make this quick,�
� she told him, with a fake smile. “I’m afraid I have an important meeting to attend very shortly.” The woman had the kind of silken Ultima accent that automatically categorised her as non-native.
“Of course,” Yosef said smoothly. “This won’t take long. The Sentine require access to the Consortium’s database of passenger and crew manifests for incoming starships to Iesta Veracrux.”
Gorospe blinked. She was actually startled by the directness of his demand, and didn’t say no straight away. “Which ship?”
“All of them,” Daig added, following his lead.
The automatic denial that she was trained to give came next. “That’s impossible. That data is proprietary material under ownership of the Eurotas Trade Consortium. It cannot be released to any local jurisdictional bodies.” Gorospe said the word local as if it rhymed with irrelevant. “If you have a specific request regarding any data pertaining to Iestan citizens, I may be able to accommodate you. Otherwise, I’m afraid not.” She started to turn away.
“Did you know Cirsun Latigue?” said Yosef.
That brought the woman to a halt. She covered her hesitation well. “Yes. We had cause to work together on occasion.” Gorospe’s lips thinned. “Is that pertinent?”
“We’re investigating the possibility that whoever murdered him is following a vendetta against employees of Baron Eurotas.” That was an outright lie, but it got Yosef the response he wanted. The woman blinked, and she was clearly wondering if she could be next. The reeve had no doubt that by now everyone in the compound, no matter if they were supposed to know or not, knew exactly how horribly Latigue had died. “We believe the killer may have arrived on planet aboard a Eurotas-operated vessel,” he added.
If the murderer was from another planet, then that was undeniable; the Consortium ran every inter-system ship that came to Iesta Veracrux, and as a part of Imperial transit law, all travellers were required to submit to cursory medical checks in order to prevent the spread of any potential biosphere-specific contagions from world to world. That data would exist in the Consortium’s records.
Gorospe was uncertain how to proceed. Her plan to dismiss the Sentine officers and return to whatever her other tasks were had crumbled. Yosef imagined that she was now thinking of a way to deal with this by invoking some higher authority. “Sanctioned Consortium security operatives will be arriving in fifty hours. I suggest you return at that time and make your request to them.”
“It wasn’t a request,” Yosef told her. “And given the frequency of the murders to date, there could be two, perhaps even three more deaths before then.” He kept his voice level. “I think that even the Baron himself would agree that time is of the essence.”
“The Baron is coming here,” Gorospe noted, in an absent; distant manner that seemed to be half disbelief.
“I’m sure he would want as much done as possible towards dealing with this unfortunate circumstance,” said Daig. “And quickly.”
She glanced back at Yosef. “Please tell me again what it is that you need, reeve?”
He resisted the urge to smile and instead offered her the data-slate. “There’s an unidentified blood trace listed here. I require it to be cross-referenced with the Consortium’s database for any matches.”
Gorospe took the slate and her practised smile reappeared. “The Consortium will of course do anything possible to assist the Sentine in the pursuit of their lawful duties. Please wait here.” She walked swiftly away, leaving the two silent men standing watch.
After a moment, Daig glanced at his cohort. “When Laimner finds out you brought us here without authorisation, the first thing he’s going to do is rip you down to foot patrol in the slums.”
“No,” said Yosef, “the first thing he’s going to do is cover his ample backside with Telemach so she won’t blame him for any fallout. But he won’t be able to pull out anything about jurisdiction if we bring him some actual evidence.”
Daig watched Gorospe vanish into the main house. “There is a large chance that she may not have anything we can use, you know.”
Yosef shot him a glare. “Well, in that case, our careers are over.”
Daig nodded grimly. “Just so we’re both clear on that.”
THE NIGHT AIR was as warm as blood, and humid with it. It was still and oppressive, almost a palpable thing surrounding and pressing down on Fon Tariel. He sighed and used a micropore kerchief to dab at his head before returning to the nested layers of hololith panes floating above his cogitator gauntlet.
Across the sparse room, in a pool of shadow at the far window, the sniper sat cross-legged, his longrifle resting across the crook of his arm. Without turning, Kell spoke to him. “Are you really in so much discomfort that you cannot sit still for more than a moment? Or is that twitching something common to all Vanus?”
Tariel scowled at the Vindicare. “The heat,” he said, by way of explanation. “I feel… soiled by it.” He glanced around; judging by the detritus scattered all about them, the room had once been the central space of a small domicile, before what appeared to be a combination of fire and structural collapse had ruined it. There were great holes in the roof allowing in the light, tepid rain from the low clouds overhead, and other rents in the floor that emitted smells Tariel’s augmetic scent-sensors classified as human effluent, burned rodent meat and contaminated fusel oils. The building was deep in the ghetto shanties of the Yndenisc Bloc, where low-caste citizens were piled atop one another like rats in a nest.
“I’m guessing you don’t leave your clade’s sanctum very often,” said Kell.
“There hasn’t been the need,” Tariel said defensively. He and his fellow infocytes and cryptocrats had taken part in many operations, all of them conducted through telepresent means directly from the sanctum, or from aboard an Officio-sanctioned starship. The thought of actually physically deploying into the field was almost an impossibility. “This is my, uh, second sortie.”
“The first being when Valdor brought you looking for me?”
“Yes.”
Kell gave a sarcastic grunt. “What wild stories you’ll have to tell when you go home to your hive, little bee.”
Tariel’s grimace hardened. “Don’t mock me. I’m only here because you need me. You won’t find the girl without my assistance.”
The sniper still refused to look his way, eyes locked on the sights of his longrifle. “That’s true,” he offered. “I’m just wondering why you have to be here with me to do it.”
Tariel had been asking himself the same thing ever since Captain-General Valdor had given mission command to the Vindicare and ordered them out to the tropics. As far as he could be certain, it seemed that operational confidence for this mission was of such paramount importance that detection of any live in-theatre signals transmitted from the Yndenisc Bloc to the Vanus sanctum could not be risked. He wondered what kind of foe could threaten to defeat the finest information security in the Imperium and found he had no answer; and the fact that such a threat could even exist troubled him in no small degree. “The quicker we get it done, then, the quicker we can leave this place and each other’s company,” he said, with genuine feeling.
“It will take as long as it takes,” Kell replied. “Wait for the target to come to you.”
The infocyte disagreed but did not voice it. Instead, he returned to the hololiths, leafing through them as if they were pages made of glass hanging suspended in the air. Anyone watching him would have only seen the motions of his hands and nothing else; Tariel had tuned the images to a visual frequency only readable by his enhancile retinal lenses.
The penetration of the local sensor web had presented him with a minor impediment, but nothing that he would have considered challenging. The infocyte sent a small swarm of organic-metal netfly automata out to chew into any opti-cables they found, and parse what rich data flows they located back to him. Each fly was by itself a relatively unsophisticated device, but networked en masse, the information the swarm returned could be cohered int
o a dense picture of what was happening in the surrounding area. Tariel had already assembled maps of the nearby structures, the flows of foot and vehicular traffic, and he was currently worming his way into the encoding of several hundred monitor beads scattered throughout the zone.
The Yndeniscs called this locale the Red Lanes, and the area was a centre for what one might tactfully describe as hedonistic pursuits. The local confederation of warlords allowed the place a great degree of latitude from their already lax legal codes, and in return reaped a sizeable percentage of profit from the patronage of pleasure-tourists from all across Terra and the Sol system. Quite how a place like this was allowed to exist on the Throneworld was a mystery to Tariel, as much so as the tribes of bandits he had encountered out in the Atalantic Plain. His understanding of Imperial Terra was of a nation-world united and glorious – that was what he saw through the glassy lenses of his monitors from the safety of his workpod in the sanctum. But now, outside… He was quickly realising that there were many dirty, messy, dark corners that did not conform to his view of the Imperium.
A soft chime sounded from the gauntlet. “Are you through?” asked Kell.
“Working,” he replied. The netflys had bored into a deep sub-web of imaging coils hidden several layers beneath the more obvious ones, and all at once he was assailed by a storm of images from the shielded rooms in a tall building across the square; images of men, women and other humans of indeterminate gender performing acts upon one another that were as fascinating as they were repulsive. “I have… access,” he muttered. “Commencing, uh, image match sweep.”
The facial pattern Valdor had provided to Tariel phased through the images, one after another, like looking for like. The infocyte tried to maintain an objective viewpoint, but the feeds he was seeing made him uncomfortable; if anything, he felt more soiled by them than by the dirt and humidity of the night air.
And then suddenly, she was there, the tawny skin of the girl’s face dark in the lamplight of a red-lit room as the trace program found its target. “Location confirmed,” he said.
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