The Disappeared

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  But Ilana Rothman’s death had also been a Disty vengeance killing. Apparently, the others had avoided the Disty in New Orleans, found a new Disappearance service, and fled Earth—which explained their newly minted identities and the fact that the information all seemed to be in such perfect order.

  The case was clear-cut. He wasn’t looking at a crime. He was looking at the crime’s punishment. The Disty had every right to kill the three of them.

  But he had a feeling something was off about this entire scenario. He just hadn’t figured out yet what it was.

  He stretched his arms above his head, feeling tired for the first time that day. This case had turned out just like DeRicci predicted it would.

  Then he froze, hands still extended mid-stretch. He still hadn’t solved the mystery of the missing pods or the crew. He went back to the records, searching through the properly messy individual records of the three bodies he’d found on the ship.

  As young people, none of them had flight training. He tried running the DNA scan again, to see if he got other hits from the three of them, to see if he could learn their identities for the fifteen years they were on the run.

  Either Sara had gone straight and her cousins had kept her in line or they had managed to avoid DNA scans during their exile. He found nothing.

  But those escape pods bothered him. Even though Sara Zaetl’s body—the worst of the three—had been discovered in the pilot’s chair, he had a hunch she hadn’t been flying that yacht. If she had, the Disty would never have boarded. She wouldn’t have let them.

  Or if she couldn’t avoid losing the ship to them, she would probably have taken one of the pods herself and done so in a way that would have made it difficult for the Disty to track her.

  But she hadn’t. She had stayed. And, at least as a young woman, sacrificing herself for others hadn’t been her style.

  Flint would keep the space cops and border guards searching for the escape pods just to satisfy his own curiosity. But that would be all it was.

  He knew who killed Sara Zaetl, Isaac Rothman, and Ruth Stern. He also knew why they died, and he knew that no legal action was necessary on the part of Armstrong Law Enforcement.

  Once he got the official information from the Disty, he would have to close the file. This case was solved.

  * * *

  Dylani huddled against Jamal, her body warm and comforting in sleep. Jamal sat upright in the train seat, staring out the window at the darkness. Sometimes he saw blurred shapes—maybe a rock outcropping or a damaged structure.

  The high-speed train between Gagarin and Armstrong Domes took a direct route through a lot of unpopulated territory. There was nothing out here except Moon dust, rocks, and craters. He used to love going through here on cheaper slower-speed trains in the daylight, so that he could view the native scenery.

  He enjoyed the Moon’s starkness. But not now. He couldn’t feel anything right now.

  Dylani was exhausted. So was he. But she was able to sleep because she was relieved. She thought they would get Ennis back. Jamal hadn’t explained anything to her. He wasn’t sure how to do it without putting their relationship in jeopardy. Even if they got Ennis back, through luck maybe or some sort of legal cunning, he wasn’t sure Dylani would forgive him.

  The very fact of Ennis’s birth had put the boy in danger, and Jamal had known that. He hadn’t told Dylani of the risks—and she was a woman who wanted to know everything. She was a woman who prepared for everything.

  She wouldn’t have had a child in this circumstance. He knew it, and he knew she probably wouldn’t forgive him for this.

  But he didn’t know how he’d make it through the next few days without her wise counsel and advice. In many ways, she was the smarter of the two of them, certainly the most logical. She saw holes in arguments he hadn’t even imagined. She had an incisive mind, one he wanted to consult now.

  He wasn’t sure how much he could tell her. She had been raised on the Moon. Her contact with aliens was limited and she thought his was too. How could he tell her even generally about the Wygnin? How could he tell her that this might be a slight reprieve while the Wygnin found a way to prove they had a right to his son?

  The only hope he had was that the Wygnin had been brought to Armstrong Dome. Maybe they had the wrong warrant. Or maybe there was some kind of legal snafu, the kind that would give Ennis back to him permanently. Some kind of technicality that would give him his son back for good.

  The police wouldn’t have called him otherwise, right? They would have checked the warrants, saw that they were in order, and sent the Wygnin on their way.

  It was a small hope, but it was hope. Jamal kept going over and over the possibilities in his mind, reviewing them the way that fingers played with stone found in a pocket.

  He needed the hope right now. Without it, he would drive himself crazy with what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.

  He wasn’t sure that he would have been able to go to Armstrong Dome without that sliver of hope. He wasn’t sure he would be able to see Ennis, knowing that this time he would never see his son again. Knowing that this time he would have to say good-bye.

  * * *

  The space yacht hurled itself toward the Moon. The computer informed Ekaterina that the yacht would be inside the Moon’s territory in a matter of minutes.

  The ache in her head grew at the thought. She had spent so much time trying to control the damn ship that she hadn’t considered her next step.

  She couldn’t very well go in there and say she was Ekaterina Maakestad and in need of asylum. No Earth Alliance affiliate would grant that. They didn’t dare, no matter what her circumstance.

  The I.D. chip in her shoulder hadn’t been reprogrammed yet—that was something that was supposed to happen just before she left the comforts of the yacht, and the only identification she had listed her as Greta Palmer, a textile worker on her way to Mars.

  What would a textile worker be doing on a yacht and how did she get so far astray? If she were heading to Mars, how did she end up on the Moon?

  The ship tilted dangerously, about to go into a spin she wasn’t sure she could pull out of. She pushed controls, praying she was doing the right thing. She was dizzy and slightly space sick and scared.

  She hadn’t seen any evidence that the Rev were behind her, but they had to be. They wouldn’t let her go this easily.

  Had the pilot given the Rev the Greta Palmer name? Did the Rev know who she was supposed to be as well as who she was? Was the pilot that organized?

  She didn’t know. But she would have to take that gamble and she would have to take it soon.

  The computer beeped at her. “Entering Moon Occupied Space,” the androgynous voice said. “Ship and personal identification required. Official Channel has been opened.”

  She hadn’t programmed the yacht’s computer to automatically open communications with anyone. That had to already be in the system.

  It was probably in most space-faring vehicles’ systems—a fail safe, to protect a pilot from herself.

  “Identification is legally required.” It sounded as if there were annoyance in the computer’s voice, although she knew there couldn’t be. “The proper communication channel is open.”

  If she waited, would the computer’s instructions get simpler and simpler? Would the computer finally do the introducing for her or automatically turn her and the ship over to the authorities?

  She had no idea, but now was the time to take action.

  One step at a time. One problem at a time. If she took this moment by moment, she might have a chance to survive.

  That was the lesson she had learned on this yacht. That was the lesson she had to take with her.

  “Warning.” The computer’s tone had become more strident. “You must—”

  She hit the communications button, cutting off the computer.

  “Mayday!” she cried, as loud as she could. “Help me! Someone please. I need permission for an emergency landing o
n the Moon. Someone. Please. Help me.”

  The computer was silent. There was no other response. For a moment, she worried that she hadn’t sent her message through.

  “This is Armstrong Dome Port Authority,” a tinny male voice said. “State the nature of your emergency.”

  The nature of her emergency. The best thing she could do was remain close to the truth.

  “My crew is gone,” she said. “I haven’t piloted any craft in twenty years. I managed to get here, and I think I can land, but I’m in big trouble and I need to land.”

  “Send us your ship’s identification,” the tinny voice said.

  “I can’t find it,” she said. “I can give you mine.”

  “Without ship identification, you will be taken to a restricted area of the Port.”

  Which might actually be safer. “I don’t care,” she said. “I have to get out of here. I need help.”

  She must have put the right amount of panic in her voice, because the Armstrong Dome employee responded, “Calm down, ma’am. We’ll get you landed, and then we’ll see what we can do about your situation. Just relax. We’ll help.”

  Somehow those words did calm her. Even though she knew the authorities couldn’t really help. Even though she knew she had more hurdles to jump through.

  She had made it another step. And each step that kept her out of Rev hands was good.

  Ten

  The holding section in the basement of the Armstrong City Complex seemed even more depressing in the morning. Flint stifled a yawn as he walked down the steps, then combed his hair with his fingers, knowing he had to look awake and alert when he saw the infant’s parents.

  He’d slept shallowly all night, remembering what it was like to meet the authorities—the look on the officer’s face when she had said, There’s a situation with your daughter, Mr. Flint. A situation. That was a phrase he made sure he never, ever used.

  At least this child was alive, which in some ways made things worse for the family. These parents would take a delicate hand. They would be happy that their child was all right, but they needed to know that they could still lose him.

  The desk sergeant who had greeted the parents at six a.m. had already checked their identification. When he called Flint to let him know that the parents had arrived, Flint asked the sergeant to do a triple-check. Which meant not just paper identification, but shoulder I.D. and background checks. He wanted to be as certain as possible that this couple were who they said they were.

  When he reached the basement, he resisted the urge to glance at the door of the suite. Instead, he walked to the meeting area. Two officers stood outside the door, and he nodded at them. He didn’t ask for a report. He’d get a sense of these parents himself.

  The meeting area was a large room with a table down the center and chairs pushed against it. There were no windows, but someone had placed a changing holographic scene on the far wall, programmed at this moment to look like the Alps Mountain Range on Earth.

  Somehow the vista of snow-capped peaks made the room seem even colder. Flint shuddered as he stepped inside.

  A dark-haired woman sat at the head of the table, her fingers drumming on its surface. She looked up when he entered. Her face was drawn with worry, her gray eyes shadowed. She looked like she had only recently stopped crying.

  Behind her, a man paced. He was powerfully built—large shoulders and a muscular torso that suggested an athletic past. There was a hint of fat around his middle. Flint wondered if these people eschewed enhancements or couldn’t afford them.

  “Are you going to take us to our son?” the woman asked. There was an edge to her voice, as if she had asked the question a number of times.

  Flint knew what she was feeling and he deliberately blocked it. He had to remain detached, as detached as he could be.

  “Yes, I’ll be taking you to Ennis.” Flint took a step closer. “I’m Miles Flint. I’m one of the two detectives in charge of this case.”

  The man peered at him. “Jamal and Dylani Kanawa.”

  “I suppose you have questions too.” Mrs. Kanawa sat, her shoulders rigid, as if she were bracing herself for more delays.

  “No,” Flint said. “You answered the department’s questions. I do have to explain a few things first.”

  “What’s there to explain?” Mrs. Kanawa asked. Her husband put a hand on her shoulder, and her mouth thinned. But she didn’t say anything else.

  Flint thought the gesture interesting. He wouldn’t have expected such calm control from a man who had been pacing a moment before. His gaze met Mr. Kanawa’s.

  Mr. Kanawa looked away.

  Flint found that interesting too. He cleared his throat. “Your son was found on a Wygnin ship. I understand he was taken from your home just recently?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Kanawa said, his hand still on his wife’s shoulder. He offered no extra information the way that a couple trying to help the authorities would.

  “The Wygnin claim they have a valid warrant, but we haven’t seen evidence of any warrant yet.”

  “They can’t,” Mrs. Kanawa said. “Neither my husband nor I has had any contact with the Wygnin. You can check our records.”

  “We have.” Flint’s voice was gentle. He didn’t want to let her know that records could be tampered with. “Wygnin law is somewhat Byzantine when it comes to retaliatory rights. The Wygnin prefer to take children as punishment for extremely serious crimes, the younger the child the better. Perhaps another member of your family had trouble with the Wygnin, and now they’re claiming the youngest blood relative.”

  “No,” Mrs. Kanawa said. “My family has never been off the Moon. Jamal’s family is gone.”

  “These warrants stay in effect for a long time,” Flint said.

  “No,” she said again.

  Mr. Kanawa’s hand visibly tightened on her shoulder. This time, Flint watched the man from the corner of his eye. He would swear that Mr. Kanawa knew something.

  “I’m telling you this,” Flint said, trying to mentally distance himself from the words he was about to speak, “because there is a chance that the Wygnin do have a valid warrant. You’ll be able to keep Ennis while the legal aspects of this case get settled, but there is a chance—I have no idea how great a chance—that you might lose him again. You might have to relinquish him into their custody.”

  “That’s not possible,” Mrs. Kanawa said.

  Flint decided to ignore her and concentrate on Mr. Kanawa. Mr. Kanawa, at least, seemed able to listen. “It might be easier to leave him here. The warrant check should take a few days at most. It’ll be hard on all of you, but not as hard as giving him up to the Wygnin.”

  Mr. Kanawa shook his head. Mrs. Kanawa stood. “Can’t you prevent this?”

  “We can work to the fullest extent of the law, ma’am,” Flint said. “But if they have a valid claim, we must enforce it.”

  “Even if that means we lose our child because of something someone else did?” She didn’t know anything about the Wygnin. He could hear the outrage in her voice and knew that no one was that good an actress.

  “Yes,” he said. “Even if.”

  “That’s as good as killing Ennis.” She crossed her arms.

  “No, ma’am. The boy would still live on Korsve. He just would be raised as a Wygnin.”

  “We’d still lose him,” Mr. Kanawa said.

  Flint nodded, his heart pounding. He wasn’t as detached as he wanted to be.

  “What are our chances, officer?” Mr. Kanawa asked.

  Flint shrugged. “I haven’t seen any warrant, and that’s unusual. But the Wygnin are usually pretty precise. They don’t venture outside of the Korsve system often, and when they do, they have valid reasons. There was another child on that ship, and the Wygnin may have been planning to pick up more children as they returned to Korsve. I don’t know.”

  “What does that mean for Ennis?” Mrs. Kanawa asked.

  “It’s all guesswork at this point. They didn’t come
just for Ennis, which is something in your favor. So is the lack of warrant. But they are certain that he belongs with them, which is a point against you. I’d say there is a good chance that you might lose him to the Wygnin.”

  “No.” Mrs. Kanawa looked fierce. “We will not lose our child because some alien society has a whim. We will fight this.”

  “Then I suggest you hire counsel, ma’am,” Flint said, wishing he could offer her more than that. “You’ll need legal representation if the Wygnin provide a valid warrant.”

  “Has anyone ever successfully fought a Wygnin warrant?” Mr. Kanawa asked.

  Flint wasn’t going to answer that question. He knew from his studies that no Wygnin warrant had been successfully challenged in the last fifty years.

  “I’m not a legal expert,” he said. “You’d do better to ask a lawyer.”

  Mr. Kanawa’s gaze met his. The man’s expression was as guarded as his wife’s was open. “Let me have a moment with my wife.”

  “Certainly,” Flint said, and went outside. They didn’t speak as he made his way out. Even after the door closed, he heard nothing.

  He had no idea what was happening in that room. He had never had the opportunity to make this choice. One day, he’d sent his daughter to day care, and she had ended up dead.

  He wasn’t sure if he would have wanted the opportunity to see her alive one last time—and he wasn’t sure he would have turned it down, either.

  “Problems?” one of the cops outside the door asked. He was slender, younger than Flint, and had a general air of worry about him that some cops just seemed to acquire.

  Flint gave him a small smile. “Nothing unexpected.”

  He crossed the hallway and leaned against the wall, resisting the urge to go into the suite with the children, pick up Ennis, imagine he was Emmeline.

  Flint let out a small sigh. Emmeline’s death could have been prevented. If there had been a proper investigation into the previous death at her day care, Emmeline would be alive. Instead, the detectives had thought the first child died from some bizarre accident. It wasn’t until Emmeline died that they realized some impatient care worker had been shaking crying children so hard that she killed them. She had killed two of them. Another baby girl, and Emmeline.