by Jake Elwood
Nobody actually wrought anything with iron anymore, outside of history buffs doing demonstrations in museums. Those benches would have been generated by a synthesizer, the hand-crafted look the product of careful programming. Everything in the village looked as if it was lifted from an age when people still made things by hand. Cassie snorted. No one in this over-priced and self-indulgent enclave would stoop to performing manual labor. They just wanted the trappings.
For a moment she imagined Lark, rolling her eyes and telling Cassie not to be a grumpypants. Lark would have loved Devonsham. She would have said that it looked stupendous, and that would be good enough for her. Cassie's cynicism wouldn't have deflated the girl, either. She would have sighed and shaken her head, given Cassie a pitying look, and gone right ahead enjoying the village.
Cassie let herself chuckle at the image, her irritation fading quickly. She felt almost ready to face the locals now. It was just in time, too. There was a matronly older woman strolling across the grass toward her, smiling in a curious, friendly way.
Pasting a guileless, agreeable expression on her face, Cassie turned to face the woman. "Hello there."
"Welcome to Devonsham," the woman said, then looked at Cassie, waiting.
There weren't more than a dozen or fifteen of the little rounded cottages in the whole village. It wasn't as if a stranger could hope to blend in. Cassie sighed inwardly and said, "I wonder if you could tell me where to find Mrs. Hampstead."
There was a long pause, during which the woman continued to look friendly and inquisitive but didn't say anything. Cassie hid her disappointment and said, "Her son George asked me to look her up."
The woman's smile slipped by a fraction at the mention of George.
"I'm afraid he's gotten himself into a bit of a situation, you see. He wanted me to get word to his mother. He told me she lived in Devonsham, but that was all he said, and now he's unreachable. I'm thinking about going door to door and knocking."
The woman's eyebrows rose. "A situation, you say?"
Well, if you're not going to tell me anything, you can just choke on your curiosity, you old …. "I can't really go into details. I'm sure you understand." If the woman knew anything about George Hampstead she would understand, all right.
The woman held her gaze for a long moment, clearly hoping Cassie would relent and give her a few juicy tidbits. Then her shoulders slumped and she said, "Grace lives just over there. The house with the little carved cows in front."
Cassie thanked her and headed across the square. She could see the cottage in question, and the cows. They were an affront to good taste, fat insipid things wearing hats and suspenders and little carved gumboots. She could imagine young George walking past them every day on his way to school, the frustrated rage building and building until he went over the edge and started a life of violent crime.
The door swung open almost as soon as she started to knock. Grace Hampstead was smaller than her son, but she still towered over Cassie, a solidly-built woman who looked as if she could have helped out during the construction of the bridge. Her hair made a curly pink halo around her head, and she wore a flowery dress of almost the same shade, but there was nothing foolish or flighty about the hard brown eyes that gazed down at Cassie. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Hampstead? My name's Cassie. I need to talk to you." Cassie paused, hoping the woman would invite her in.
Mrs. Hampstead just stared down at her, one eyebrow quirking upward. "What's it about?"
Cassie took a deep breath. A dozen stratagems had come to her during the drive, glib lies to set the woman's mind at ease and tease a bit of information out of her. But she'd been imagining a foolish old biddy surrounded by houseplants and memories, not the shrewd, world-weary woman now before her. Cassie decided to trust her instincts and speak the truth.
"It's about your son George. I had a confrontation with him earlier today. He was after me, and I would like to know why."
Grace Hampstead gave her a long, appraising look. Then she stepped backward and said, "You'd better come inside."
Cassie followed her into the cool interior of the cottage. If there had been a Mr. Hampstead he was clearly no longer around. Every part of the cottage was feminine, from the pink and lavender wallpaper to the lavish flowered cushions that buried most of the furniture. The walls were decorated in landscape pictures, very small paintings surrounded by thick elaborate frames. The pictures were all idealized scenes of forest and farmland, with gaudy birds winging over haystacks or flowering trees.
"Won't you sit down? Can I get you a cup of tea? Cassie, wasn't it?"
"Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Hampstead."
"Call me Grace." She stepped into a tiny kitchen, leaving Cassie alone in the extravagant living room. Cassie moved a few cushions and managed to seat herself on one end of a small sofa.
"You didn't say if you wanted tea, but I certainly do, and I hate to drink my tea alone. Here you go." Grace returned from the kitchen and put a cup and saucer in Cassie's hands. "It's black tea with a hint of orange pekoe." She lowered herself into an armchair and lifted her own cup to her lips. "You won't be getting any cream or sugar for it. Not in this house. I don't put up with that sort of barbarism." She winked, blew on her tea, and took a sip.
Cassie took a sip of her own tea. It was much too hot. She rested the cup and saucer on her thigh and looked at Grace.
"If you're trying to find my George, I'm afraid I won't help you."
"That's all right," Cassie said. "I know where he is."
Grace's eyebrows rose. "You do? That's more than I know."
"He's in the hospital in Zemlya City, I'm sure. With a policeman keeping an eye on him."
A look of alarm crossed Grace's face.
"I think he'll be all right," Cassie assured her. "He was involved in an attempted kidnapping and … someone … punched him."
Grace lowered her cup. "Maybe you'd better tell me what this is about."
Cassie gave a helpless shrug, then squirmed as a few drops of hot tea landed on her thigh. "That's the problem. I don't know what it's about." She gave a quick account of the incident at the quilt show, glossing over the violent parts and making it sound as if someone else had interfered and rescued her. "They were after me," she finished, "and I don't think it was their idea. I think George, at least, was hired muscle. Someone wants me kidnapped, and I don't know who, or why."
Grace's brow furrowed. "Well, if you're not looking for my George, I'm not sure why you've come to see me."
"It's my family." The words surprised Cassie even as she spoke them. She hadn't had a family in a long, long time. The word felt strange on her lips, but over the past year Jerry and Lark had become family to her. She hesitated, lost in a jumble of conflicting emotions, then shoved the whole prickly mess to the back of her mind to be considered later. "I don't know if they're in danger," she said. "I need to know what's going on."
Grace's eyes narrowed. She had family of her own, of course. She had a son, and it sounded as if Cassie was asking her to take sides against him.
"George is in police custody now," Cassie said. "It's beyond my power to help him or to hurt him. I have no grudge against him, Grace. I can take care of myself, but I'm worried about Jerry and Lark."
Grace stared at her for a long time, until Cassie took a sip of her now-cool tea just to break eye contact. The tang of the orange pekoe blunted the bitterness of the black tea, and she decided she liked the blend. It would be better with cream, though.
"I don't think I can help you," Grace said. "Even if I wanted to, which I'm not sure about."
Cassie didn't speak. Sometimes silence made people talk. It was an underrated interrogation technique.
"He hasn't confided in me since he was smaller than you are."
She thought of the hulking man who had lifted her with one hand. Quite a long time ago, then.
"He doesn't tell me much, and he certainly doesn't talk about any of his underworld friends, or what he really does for a livin
g." Grace stared into her own teacup, looking suddenly old and sad. "He told me he was working for a landscaping company. Elysian Acres." She glanced up for a moment. "Sounds nice, doesn't it?" Her gaze returned to the cup. "I hoped …. I knew he wasn't really going to go straight, though. He got his feet onto the left-hand path a long time ago. I don't think he's going to find his way back."
Cassie gulped more of her tea, enough that she was no longer afraid of spilling it, and stood. "Thank you, Grace. I'm sorry I had to bring you bad news. Shall I put this in the kitchen?"
There was a hint of movement from the woman's head. It might have been a nod, so Cassie took her cup into the little kitchen and set it in the sink. The cottage seemed stifling and claustrophobic all of a sudden, and she headed for the front door. Her hand was on the knob – how quaint to see a manual door as the main entrance to a home! – when Grace spoke from her armchair.
"I'm glad he didn't hurt you."
There wasn't anything to say to that. Cassie let herself out and headed for her car.
A police car blocked the road just past the far end of the bridge. Constable Holcroft leaned against the driver's door, a tall, broad-shouldered man with short sandy hair and the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. He wasn't handsome exactly, but his aura of strength and unwavering integrity gave him an irresistible charisma. Cassie had dated him briefly when she first came to Zemoth, before Jerry had come back into her life. Holcroft had been charming and funny and gallant, and she'd liked him. Now, he looked about as charming as a combat robot. He straightened up as she stopped, then gestured her curtly to the side of the road. She pulled over, he rolled his car over so he was no longer blocking traffic, and she got out.
"Constable Holcroft." She usually called him Morren, but if he was going to be heavy-handed, she was damned if she would use his first name.
He stared at her, his face cold and professional, an unyielding mask she had never seen on him before. The charming man who had once taken her to dinner was gone as if he had never existed. "Cassie. You've fled the scene of a crime and failed to get in touch with police."
"And you've put a trace order on my car, in contravention of my civil rights." Zemoth was quite a liberal world. Holcroft had overstepped his authority.
"I had reason to be concerned for your safety," he said stiffly. "You were attacked. There were weapons. A man has been hospitalized." His eyes narrowed. "And you wouldn't return my calls."
She scowled at him. "You're pulling me over for not returning your calls?"
The look he gave her made her suddenly wish for a coat. "Attacked," he said, his voice clipped. "Weapons. Hospitalized." He folded his arms across his broad chest. "Don't play the outraged citizen with me, Cassie. You're yanking me around, and you're trying to manipulate me, and it isn't going to work." She'd never seen him scowl before. He scowled now, and he was good at it. "You're going to tell me what's going on. Either here or in an interrogation room at the station." He uncrossed his arms and put his hands on his hips, close to his stunner, close to his wrist cuffs. "I have more than enough justification to arrest you for assault, obstruction of justice, fleeing the scene of a serious crime, and suspicion of felonious conspiracy. In fact, I'm running out of good reasons not to arrest you."
A hundred protests came bubbling up. She suppressed them all. Holcroft had the look of a man who was down to his very last nerve. She felt her shoulders slump, and she said, "Fine. I'll tell you what I know. It isn't much, though."
He didn't move, didn't speak. Just waited.
She told him the whole story, leaving nothing out. He listened impassively, giving no sign of belief or disbelief, sympathy or outrage. When she finished he stared at her for a long time in silence.
"You're sure they were looking for you specifically?"
She nodded.
"You have no idea why someone would be after you?"
"No."
He stared at her. Cassie, not about to fall for her own trick, stared back and let the silence stretch out.
"You were always vague about what you did before you came to Zemoth."
She shrugged.
"Maybe your past has come back to haunt you."
Cassie didn't respond.
His voice softened somewhat. "Maybe it's time you told me about your past." He reached up, touching the little camera mounted above his breast pocket. "Off the record, if you like. Maybe it's best if I know."
She stared at him, strangely touched. "Thank you, Morren." She took a deep breath, trying to decide what to say. Saying nothing at all would be wisest, but she couldn't snub him, not after he'd reached out to her like that. She didn't know why she felt compelled to speak. She only knew that she did. "I … may have broken some laws in my earlier days."
He unclipped the little camera from his shirt, turned, and tossed it onto the seat of his car. Then he faced her again, his expression carefully neutral.
"I … I led a checkered life, and I stepped on a few toes. There could be some people out there who are displeased with me." That was an understatement, but she wasn't about to give him specifics. "I put all that behind me when Lark came into my life. I take my responsibilities to her seriously. I'm going straight now."
He nodded.
"As far as I know, no one from my old life knows how to find me. But clearly someone found out where I am. My past has caught up with me."
"All right," he said, looking more calm than she had any right to expect. "Who? Who would be angry enough to come after you like this?"
She threw her hands in the air. "I have no idea!" Frustration washed over her in a wave, and more than a little embarrassment, too. "There's no one person or group. I moved around a lot. One system after another. I'd steal something and move on. None of my targets should be annoyed enough to still be after me, if they have any idea who it was who robbed them. But it could be any of them."
Then there were the bounty hunters and mercenary companies who had hunted her after the caper on Hesperus. She'd had to kill a few people to keep ahead of those lunatics. They knew who she was, and they would be angry enough – and crazy enough – to come after her. That particular can of worms, though, was one she didn't want to open with the good constable.
"Have you, ah, provoked anyone here on Zemoth?"
"No!" She scowled at him. "I told you, I've been going straight since Lark came along."
"All right." He stared at the air over her head, his face thoughtful. "It's not inconceivable that someone could hire those two clowns from off-planet." He looked at her. "We think the other one was Kosta Marandy. He's a local crook. He's got a little more on the ball than Hampstead, but not much. They're not exactly interstellar organized crime candidates."
She nodded, not sure where he was going.
"Someone is managing this locally. Someone came to Zemoth and started looking around for hired muscle to send after you. If you're right about it being someone from your past, then we're looking for an off-worlder. That narrows things down nicely."
She thought of Jerry's message. Someone was after him. Because of her? Or was it the other way around? Either way, she decided not to mention it to Holcroft. Telling him about her own past was one thing. Bringing Jerry into it was something else entirely. Holcroft was a cop, after all. She would talk to Jerry, she decided, then tell Holcroft anything she thought he needed to know.
"Try not to worry," Holcroft said. "Zemoth is like a planet-wide small town. Strangers can't hide for long. We'll find this off-worlder and put a stop to any more plots."
Cassie nodded politely. There was always a chance he would succeed, but she suspected she would be solving this particular problem herself.
"In the meantime, I don't want you staying at home. I've arranged a house rental, very discreetly, through the cousin of an analyst we sometimes work with. There's no way to trace it back to the police department, or to you."
She blinked up at him, baffled.
"It'll be fine," he told her. "It's a nice place, and I'
m sure it'll only be for a few days."
Like hell will I be chased out of my own house. She didn't put the thought to words, just nodded solemnly as he transferred the address and a front door code to her PAD.
"There's room for Lark and Jerry when they get back. The building has a very good AI and up-to-date security. You'll be safe there."
"All right. Thank you." She could feel anger rising inside of her, directed at the mysterious opponent who was so thoroughly disrupting her life. It was difficult not to let the anger spill over onto Holcroft. He was going to a lot of trouble to keep her safe, and his efforts were going to help Lark and Jerry as well. He deserved better than to have her snapping at him. With an effort she made herself smile and said, "You seem to have thought of everything. I'm grateful."
He smiled, a hint of the charming man she'd known returning. "Don't worry about a thing. I'll track this miserable subject down and you'll get your life back." He walked to his car and opened the door. "Take a look at the house. Get settled in. I'll drop by this evening and escort you to your place so you can pick up a few things."
"Okay. Thanks again. I won't forget this."
He gave her a broad smile and got into his car. She watched him drive away, and then she got into her own car.
And immediately drove home.
Chapter 7
Her house stood on the outskirts of Zemlya City, a few kilometers from the edge of Severnaya Plateau. Her closest neighbors were hundreds of meters away. She turned onto the quiet street that led past her house, crossed a low ridge that would give her a view of home, and parked the car just below the skyline. She walked to the top of the ridge, leaned against a cypress tree, and took a good long look at her house.
The street was quiet. Nothing moved. There was no sign of danger, no trace of surveillance. She could make out a familiar blue ground car parked at the curb. It belonged to one of her neighbors. A strange red hovercar sat across from her house and a few meters down the street. She kept an eye on it.