She breathed shallowly, hoping she would hear something. She wiggled the rest of the way out and slid down the car’s chassis, landing with a thump. Then she slapped one of the chips on her hand, and light poured out over her fingers, illuminating the entire underbelly of the shopping area.
A few scrawny cats ran past, startled by the light. She swept it over the smooth pavement, to the upraised sidewalks. Nothing.
Then she saw a movement near one of the doorways. She walked toward it, trying to see more clearly. A man huddled there, his clothing in rags. He raised his head, the light reflecting off his skin. He was filthy and unshaven.
She scanned past him, saw nothing—no one in any of the doorways or in the windows—and no streets to run down. The doors would be locked at this time of the evening. The Proscenium Arches hadn’t yet been cleared for twenty-four-hour access.
The man made no sound. She wasn’t even sure he was aware of her presence. She turned toward the other side of the street and scanned it. More empty doorways and windows. Buildings that couldn’t be broken into, not this quickly and not by a woman armed with—what? It had sounded like a laser pistol, but DeRicci wasn’t sure where Palmer had carried it. The guards had done a cursory search.
Cursory clearly hadn’t been enough.
DeRicci trained the light on the pavement and cursed. Of course that wouldn’t work. The pavement here was new, synthetic. One of its great innovations, touted by the city planners, was that it wouldn’t show wear, react to substance spills, or suffer from the effect of accidents.
Palmer wouldn’t have run in the direction they had been going. Too many lights and people ahead. Besides, there would have been the risk that she would be seen.
Which left only one direction for her to go. She had doubled back.
DeRicci ran in that direction, out of the Proscenium Arches, but still saw nothing. The street was as empty here as it had been when she drove through it.
She cursed again, then unblocked her links. Time to call for help.
* * *
Ekaterina clung to the inside of the doorway, grateful for the stone façade. Her back was pressed against the top, her arms and legs keeping herself braced. Her muscles shook. She wouldn’t be able to hold this position much longer.
She hadn’t done anything like this since she was a teenager, and she felt it in every inch of her body. She used to be able to hang above doorways like this for hours. It had been a great way to hide from her parents, from truant officers, from anyone she chose. The ultimate urban warrior, a friend had once called her.
She didn’t feel like that now. She’d been here less than fifteen minutes and her limbs were about to give way.
DeRicci had passed just a few moments before, heading, as Ekaterina hoped, the way that they had come. She hadn’t heard anyone else get out of the aircar, but that didn’t mean anything.
DeRicci had been the one to break out. The others could have climbed through the hole she left.
At that moment, Ekaterina’s right arm buckled. She caught herself, but her arm shook so badly she knew she wouldn’t be able to stay up here any longer.
She grabbed the stone edge of the façade and swung herself down, landing as quietly as she could on the synthetic sidewalk. It absorbed her impact, but not the thud she made as she landed. The sound seemed to echo under the overhangs, and she was convinced that DeRicci had heard it.
Ekaterina held her breath.
No sound of footsteps, no soft rustle of clothing. No breathing. Ekaterina peered around the doorway. The indigent man still lingered in his doorway across the street. He seemed oblivious to everything around him.
The aircar lay on its side in the middle of the road, a dark lump, with no movement around it.
DeRicci stood in the mouth of the overhang, light pouring off her hand. She appeared to be talking, probably connecting with someone on her link.
Ekaterina wouldn’t get another chance.
But she didn’t run. She didn’t dare. Running might be too loud. Instead, she walked, pressing herself against the buildings, breathing shallowly. Her heart raced.
When she hit the boulevard, she would have to find a side street.
Then she needed a place to hide.
* * *
Port authorities had moved the yacht where the Disty vengeance killing had occurred to Salvage. Since Flint had closed the file the night before, the yacht was no longer considered a crime scene. The Port would try to track down the yacht’s owners to see if they were, indeed, someone other than the corpses, but the priority on that assignment would be low.
Salvage was in the oldest section of the terminal, an area with technology so out of date that it wasn’t worth replacing. The docking areas—or what had been the docking areas—were smaller than the ones currently used, although their ceilings were higher. The walls were scored with exhaust traces, singe marks from rocket fuel used by the early colonists, and dents from poorly docked ships. The air here was foul as well, recycled thousands of times through an ancient self-contained system that should have been retired long ago.
Now the docking areas were used to store ships that were going to be resold or disassembled for parts. Most of the ships were towed here by robotic units, taking them through underground passageways specially built for this assignment.
The first docking area housed the most recent arrivals. It was the sorting space, where specialists figured out clear title to the ship and whether it had more value as an intact unit or the sum of its parts.
Flint used to hate coming here. Often he had to come to reclaim a ship that had been improperly impounded. Finding it could take an entire day. In those cases, however, the ship’s owners had already been through a large and lengthy legal proceeding, and the ship—or what was left of it—would be buried in one of the myriad sorting stations in the other old docking areas.
This time, he was coming for a ship that had just been moved here, and it made a huge difference. The yacht he was looking for was two rows back, near some cruisers of similar vintage.
The airlock doors were closed, but unlatched. He let himself inside and instantly wished he hadn’t. He had forgotten about the smell. If anything, it was worse than it had been before—rotted flesh and decaying blood mixed with a trace of feces.
He knew that the bodies were gone. Corpses were not allowed in salvage ships, but no one had bothered to clean this thing out. He wondered if he would even be able to touch the cockpit controls. They’d been covered in intestine the last time he’d seen them.
He put a Protectocloth over his mouth and nose, hoping it would filter out the worst of the odor. Then he slipped into the main part of the ship.
The coroner’s office hadn’t bothered with the usual niceties. Fluids covered the floor where they hadn’t before. Dozens of footprints lined the regulation carpet. Because this was no longer a crime scene, the coroner’s people could take the bodies out however they wanted to, no longer caring if they destroyed evidence.
Flint didn’t care about the main part of the yacht either. All he cared about was the logs.
The interior of the ship was stifling. Someone had shut down the environmental systems. He knew, though, that they hadn’t shut down the main computer. They would need it to track the yacht’s owners—if they could. No sense in having to reboot everything when a complete shutdown wasn’t necessary.
“Computer,” he said. “I’m Armstrong Dome Law Enforcement investigating a possible crime. In order to proceed, I’ll need light and fresh air in the cockpit.”
“Authorization please.” The computer’s androgynous voice sounded just like the one in the other yacht.
“You’ll get that as soon as I enter the cockpit. I cannot do it from my current location. I am not asking you to compromise classified systems. I am merely asking for basic life support in one area of the ship.”
“Understood.”
Lights came on ahead of him. He could see them filtering into the corridor
that led to the cockpit. Flint steeled himself, then walked to the cockpit and stopped just inside the door.
The controls were covered with dried blood, and probably other things as well. No one had bothered to wipe them off.
He made a face, then continued forward. The pilot’s screen was useless because it was so filthy. But the co-pilot’s screen only had mild spatter.
He pressed his finger against it.
“I am sending my identification now,” he told the computer. “I need to hear your communications logs. I want audio only, although I would also like a download into my own link.”
He gave the linking information. Then he took his finger off the screen, and resisted the urge to wipe his hand against his pants. This was the most disgusting crime scene he’d ever been in. He only hoped that he wouldn’t have to be here long.
“Begin with the last communication, and work backwards,” he said.
“I do not have communication log information,” the computer said.
“I thought your default system automatically recorded incoming and outgoing messages.”
“Such messages were wiped from my system when initial destination was reached.”
“Wiped or erased?” Flint asked.
“Wiped,” the computer said.
“Then reconstruct the information and play it for me.”
“I do not have proper authorization,” the computer said.
“Yes,” Flint said. “You do.”
“Authorization must come from the ship’s owner,” the computer said.
“This space yacht has been confiscated by Armstrong Dome. By law, ownership is transferred to the Port of Armstrong. I am a representative of Armstrong authority, which makes me one of the many new owners.” Flint had given that speech a number of times, but never as a detective. Only as a space cop.
“Understood.” The computer’s voice sounded louder in here. “The ship traveled a great distance without using its communications system. Would you like course coordinates and destination information?”
“Not yet,” Flint said. He knew better than to give the computer an outright refusal. Some shipboard computers were so linear that a single outright refusal resulted in a complete inability to get the information later.
“Final spoken communications log,” the computer said.
“D.I.E.M., this is Pong.” The voice was nasal and flat, almost hollow, like most Disty voices.
“Pong, go ahead.” A man’s voice answered. He had an accent that Flint recognized as Earth-based, but he couldn’t be more specific than that.
“We will reach the rendezvous point in fifteen Earth minutes. Have you the package?”
“Package, complete with accessories. We’ll vacate the moment we get the funds transfer.”
“Transferring now.”
“Along with accessories bonus,” the male voice said.
“As per agreement, accessories bonus sent as well.”
There was a momentary silence, presumably as the man checked the financial records. Then:
“Always a pleasure doing business with you folks.”
“The colloquialism is not appropriate to such a serious matter.” The Disty sounded even drier than usual.
“Lighten up, Pong. All I was doing was signing off. D.I.E.M. out.”
The log spooled down. Flint realized he was holding his breath.
“Penultimate log,” the computer said.
“Belay that,” Flint said. “One was fine. Have the others been downloaded?”
“Yes,” the computer said.
“Then that’s all the audio I need.” He felt a little lightheaded. Some of that might have been from the smell, but he suspected it was more than that.
This yacht had used the same name as the previous one. That was not allowed in any regs that Flint was aware of. The name seemed to be initials, although he supposed it could have been spelled out, in some way. D’Eye ee’m, perhaps. He’d have to run all of those when he returned to the precinct.
He let out a long breath. “Computer,” he said. “Give me all the information on D.I.E.M. in your files.”
“I am a default system only. I do not record personal information,” the computer said.
“Were you ever used for personal information?” Flint asked.
“No,” the computer said.
He nodded. He had expected that. “Then give me a brief history of the scarring on your hull. Did it occur—?”
His link beeped.
“Belay that, computer,” he said. “Hold until I tell you.”
He answered the link by tapping his earlobe for audio only. He didn’t want anyone to see where he was standing—mostly because he didn’t want to inflict this crime scene on anyone else.
“Flint?” DeRicci’s voice sounded tinny and small, like it often did when she unblocked her links.
“Oh, good,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach you. You shouldn’t—”
“I don’t give a rat’s about what you want,” DeRicci said. “We have a major problem here.”
He felt cold. “What kind of problem?”
“Our little prisoner,” DeRicci said. “She escaped.”
“Escaped?” Flint asked. “Where?”
“Near the Proscenium Arches.”
“Have you called for backup?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve already humbled myself. But I’m staying on the ground to search. You have to go see the chief.”
“The chief?” Flint felt a surge of anger. He was glad he hadn’t initiated visual. He didn’t want DeRicci to see the fury in his face. “I didn’t lose the prisoner.”
“Technically you did,” DeRicci said. “We’re partners, Flint.”
“And I tried to warn you she wasn’t what she seemed, DeRicci, but your links were blocked.”
“Listen,” DeRicci said. “I’m not the most popular person at headquarters. I go in, we both get reprimanded. I’m covering your ass, Flint. The least you can do is cooperate.”
Her words had a ring of truth. “You don’t have to cover for me, DeRicci.”
“Yes, I do,” she said. “You have a future, Flint. You’re good. And I’m not going to let my past taint your career. Got that?”
“No,” he said, and then he realized the link had been severed. For a moment, he toyed with re-attaching, but thought the better of it.
DeRicci wasn’t going to change her mind, and Flint was better at interpersonal relations than she was. If he played this right, he might be able to salvage DeRicci’s career along with his own.
Sixteen
Lights illuminated the road under the Proscenium arches, all of them focused on the ruined aircar. Two medic units floated above it, recording the scene below. The car had been opened like a can, the injured guards still inside.
DeRicci stood near the doorway leading into the main building. The indigent man was in custody, talking with two uniforms, although they were having a time of it. He didn’t seem to know where he was, let alone if he had seen anything.
Dozens of squads had arrived, all of them parking and none of them actually participating in the search—at least not yet. Apparently dispatch had decided to send them all here, not realizing that someone would have to coordinate on site.
DeRicci sighed. She would coordinate. It was the least she could do for her major screw-up. Also, it was a great last duty for a soon-to-be-dismissed detective to perform.
She stepped into the flood of lights, watching as the uniformed officers gathered near the aircar. Dozens of cars and even more people. She hoped someone had been bright enough to fan out.
She also hoped that someone else was giving overall orders, sealing off Armstrong so that no one could leave. But she didn’t have jurisdiction over that. All she had been able to do was inform dispatch of her mistake, and hope that Flint could minimize the damage to his own career.
The uniforms seemed to be searching for someone in charge. She waved a hand.
“Over here
!” she shouted.
At first, no one seemed to hear. She repeated the gesture, waving her arm again, and finally some of the closer unis moved in.
They all seemed so young, their faces fresh, their eyes alive. She knew that some of them had to be close to her age, but it felt like they were innocent, incorruptible, even though that wasn’t true.
The unis, particularly the foot patrols, had the most contact with the citizens of Armstrong. They also saw some of the worst aspects of the city. But most of these folks had signed up because they were interested in the work, not because of the pay.
Of course, a lot of them quit when they realized just how demanding the job was.
“Gather up!” she yelled, and the cry echoed through the ranks. They surrounded her, blocking her view of the aircar. She would never forgive herself if those terminal guards died because she hadn’t treated Greta Palmer like a dangerous criminal.
“We have to move fast, people,” she said.
They crowded around her.
“You’re going to be searching for a woman named Greta Palmer. She disappeared from here not a half hour ago after she engineered that aircar wreck. She’s slight, blond and has unusually pale skin. She does not have obvious links or enhancements. She also speaks with an Earth accent and she may or may not be wanted by the Rev. We have to find her before she gets out of the dome.”
The silence greeting her was immense. Dozens of unis, all listening to everything she said.
“I’ve downloaded what information we have on Palmer to Central. Pick it up before you begin the search. She’s clever, and she’s determined. I don’t know what her story is, but if you do find her, assume she’s smarter than you are and extremely dangerous. Do everything you can to bring her in. Any questions?”
A uni in the front row, tall man with bulky muscles and a queue that disappeared into the back of his shirt, said, “Is this a Priority One search?”
How was she supposed to know? She’d been here the entire time. “You didn’t get the ranking from dispatch?”
“They seem to know less than you do.”
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