So the chief hadn’t issued over all orders yet, or she hadn’t thought of it. Of course not. She was probably doing damage control. DeRicci hoped that she remembered to give the orders to shut down the dome.
“Yes,” she said, making the decision for the chief. “It’s a Priority One search.”
A Priority One Search meant that the unis could use all the tools at their disposal, including force if need be, to find the fugitive. If anyone got overzealous or if the priority turned out to be lower, the blame for that would fall on the person who initially set the priority.
Her.
If she was wrong, then that was one more thing they could pin on her record. Or actually, several more things. As if it mattered.
“I’m going to divide you into quadrants,” she said, “using this as our starting point.”
Quickly she separated them into four groups. There was no dissention, for which she was grateful. She hoped this would work. She’d never coordinated an effort like this before.
“All right,” she said. “Fan out. Let’s find her fast.”
They were fortunate this had occurred as night was falling. Few trains departed after twilight, and most of the Exterior workers only worked during the Dome Daylight, to keep their schedules the same as everyone else’s. That wouldn’t hit for hours yet. Only a handful of people would be inconvenienced because Palmer had escaped—provided the unis found her before False Dawn.
The unis moved out in their various directions, sticking with their partners so that they could begin the Priority One search. DeRicci let out a sigh and rubbed the heel of her hand over her face. The adrenaline was beginning to leave her system, and she was feeling bruises that she hadn’t noticed when she first pulled herself out of the window.
She walked over to the aircar. After she found out how the guards were doing, she’d resume her search.
She had a hunch the only way she could save her career was to bring in Palmer herself—and the odds of succeeding at that were getting slimmer all the time.
* * *
“So,” Jamal said. “I was hoping you would be able to help me. The Wygnin do not have the proper warrants. There might be some kind of technicality—”
Needahl held up a hand to silence Jamal, then stood. He picked up his plant mister and stepped into the same green area he had initially come out of. For several minutes, he misted plants, sending a fine spray throughout the room.
Jamal’s heart was beating hard. He found it difficult to sit and wait, but he knew better than to speak. He had to give Needahl time to consider his case.
Finally, Needahl set the plant mister down. “You are not telling me everything.”
“I’ve told you enough,” Jamal said. “You know more than my wife.”
“Yes.” Needahl slipped his hands in his pockets. “You have traveled on an interstellar basis for your job. You had contact with the Wygnin, but there is more than that, isn’t there?”
Jamal had glossed over his history. Even though he had decided to trust Needahl, he didn’t want to give the man too much information. If Needahl had the right information, he might accidentally let some of it slip.
“What do you mean?” Jamal asked.
“You used a Disappearance service,” Needahl said. “This is why you’re being vague.”
Jamal felt the muscles in his shoulder tighten. He didn’t deny this, but he wasn’t going to confirm it either.
“And if you used a Disappearance service, then you did something wrong. I’m assuming, since your wife does not know of your past, that whatever you have done wrong, you did it to the Wygnin. Am I right?”
Jamal’s throat closed up, just like it had before. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.
“And if you did something to the Wygnin, it was probably at least a decade ago, before we completely understood the nature of their laws and customs.” Needahl paused, and met Jamal’s gaze. “Which means that you probably did something inadvertent and horrendous.”
Jamal had to look away.
“Which begs the question, then. Why did you have a child? If you hadn’t had a child, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
Jamal cleared his throat. It took him a moment to find his voice. “We did not plan the pregnancy.” He could barely hear himself. “Or at least, I didn’t.”
“You think your wife did?”
Jamal shrugged. “I don’t think she was as cautious as I would have been.”
“Yet you didn’t give the child up, nor did you abort it. You knew the consequences.”
“Ten years is a long time,” Jamal whispered.
“To a human, yes,” Needahl said. “To a Wygnin, no.”
Needahl obviously knew a lot. He was successful and strong. He liked challenges. Of all the lawyers Jamal could have chosen, Needahl was clearly the best.
“Will you help us?” Jamal asked.
“No,” Needahl said.
All the air left Jamal’s body. “Why not?”
Needahl leaned against his desk, resting one leg on it and bracing the other against the floor. It was a casual, comfortable position, one designed to reassure someone.
“If I were a young man with no children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren, I might consider it,” he said. “But if I take this, and the technicality turns out to be a false one, or if I inadvertently offend the Wygnin just like you did, I’ll be in the same position you are. I’m sorry, Mr. Kanawa. The risk is too great.”
Jamal felt his cheeks heat. “I’m not asking you to break any of their laws.”
“No one has ever argued technicalities with the Wygnin,” Needahl said. “They might not view them with the same leniency that we do.”
“Surely if they make a mistake in their warrant—”
“It doesn’t negate your actions,” Needahl said.
“But they can’t forgive one and not the other,” Jamal said.
“By our logic, that’s right,” Needahl said. “But we don’t know what their logic is. You know that they don’t always communicate such things clearly. We often don’t find out until it’s too late.”
Jamal clasped his hands together so tightly that he could feel the bones in his fingers. “It seems that the risk I’m asking you to take is a small one, especially in comparison to my son’s life.”
“Your son is an infant, if I’m understanding you.”
“Yes,” Jamal said.
“He won’t lose his life. He’ll become a member of the Wygnin family. He’ll remain intact.”
“He won’t be human.”
“Not as we know it, no, he won’t,” Needahl said. “But they’ll treat him with love and compassion, as they would their own child. He’ll have a good life.”
Jamal shook his head. “You know that’s not an argument. You know I can’t give up my boy for that. It’s not right.”
“No,” Needahl said. “Having the child in the first place, with this kind of sentence over your head. That’s not right.”
Jamal stood. The tension in his body had become shaking, the kind of shaking he often felt when he held back fury. “I can’t undo it. And it goes against everything we believe to have a child pay for my mistake.”
“You’re right,” Needahl said. “We can’t undo it. And you’ve made two extremely serious mistakes. How can I trust you not to make a third? You think this technicality is minor. Your son’s life is already forfeit. But my eldest child is a daughter. She’s forty-four years old. If the Wygnin take her, they will destroy her. I cannot gamble her life for your son’s. It’s not an even trade-off.”
In spite of himself, Jamal understood the argument. “You said you liked a challenge.”
“I do,” Needahl said.
“Maybe there’s a young, unattached lawyer in your firm, one who could act as your proxy—”
“No,” Needahl said. “I’m not going to ask my people to take a risk I will not take.”
“What about another lawyer in Armstrong or on the Mo
on, someone who’d be willing take this on?”
“I don’t know anyone.” Needahl hadn’t changed his position. He still looked as relaxed as he had when the conversation started. “No one is willing to deal with the Wygnin any more.”
“You wouldn’t recommend anyone even if you knew someone, would you?” Jamal asked.
“I’m sorry,” Needahl said softly.
“What am I supposed to do?” Jamal asked.
But Needahl did not answer him, and they both knew why. Jamal only had one choice. He was going to lose his son because of an accident, a crime he committed without knowing it many years ago.
And, it seemed, nothing he could do would ever change that.
* * *
Ekaterina’s lungs burned. She didn’t think the air was thinner here than it had been in San Francisco, but it felt thinner. Maybe it just wasn’t as pure.
Or maybe she wasn’t used to the exertion. She’d been running for blocks now, threading her way around the backs of buildings, hoping that most didn’t have the kinds of security systems buildings on Earth had.
The aircar had reminded her that technology was at least a decade behind on the Moon, sometimes more. Technology spread throughout the known universe in odd ways: the newest settlements got the most up-to-date equipment, as did the richer colonies; middle-aged colonies often had the most out-of-date items because no one went there unless they had to; and the oldest colonies, which also happened to be the closest to Earth, had whatever they could buy or someone could import.
That might serve her well. She would avoid the most troublesome facets of richer colonies, like sophisticated security systems, and find technology like the kind she had grown up with, the kind she’d learned to subvert to avoid her overbearing parents in the years before she went to live with her grandmother.
But technology was the least of her problems. The police were searching for her and the Rev wouldn’t be far behind.
She had reached a section of the city that seemed to be residential. The homes were small and mostly dark. A few had on interior lights, but they had shaded the windows so that no one could see in, which also meant that no one could see out.
The air smelled faintly of flowers. Apparently some of the residents had gone to the expense of putting in Earth-quality dirt, cultivating plants, and then using their precious water to keep them alive. Strange that they had chosen to spend that much money on flowering plants instead of a vegetable garden.
When Ekaterina had lived on Revnata, the human colonists were not allowed to grow decorative plants. Everyone was required to have a vegetable patch. If a person lacked a gift for cultivation, then someone else ran the garden. It helped supplement the meager food rations, the tasteless supplements, and the handful of edible Rev vegetation.
Her stomach growled. The sandwiches she’d had hours ago in decontamination had gotten her this far, but she had expended a lot of energy since then, and she wasn’t going to be able to stop, at least not here.
At least there was no real weather in the dome. The temperatures cooled down at night just because humans expected that (and it saved energy), but she didn’t have to worry about rain or snow or deep cold. The elements wouldn’t kill her.
But hunger and exhaustion might.
She crouched behind a rudimentary shed someone had assembled on the back of his property. It was hidden behind a fence, probably because it was some sort of building code violation. The flower smell was stronger here, a rich sweet perfume that she didn’t recognize. Maybe the flowers were a violation as well. If so, that would mean that this area wasn’t patrolled very often.
Not that she could stay here. She just needed to rest and figure out what her next move was going to be.
Her clothing was filthy. She probably was too. That accident hadn’t helped her appearance and neither had hanging from that doorway. Her legs had gotten scraped as she ran behind buildings in complete darkness, and her hair was tangled. Her arm ached.
She certainly wasn’t presentable enough to find one of Armstrong’s indigent shelters. Besides, the police had probably alerted them already.
She needed to leave the city, but that wasn’t possible either, not without funds—and she had none. If she used the money that Disappearance Inc had put into the Greta Palmer accounts, then it would be as if she had drawn a map for the police.
If she used any of her family money or tapped any of the Ekaterina Maakestad accounts—even the most obscure ones—then the Rev would find her.
There was no way to leave Armstrong Dome without money. The high-speed trains that crisscrossed the Moon were the only transportation between the domed colonies. The preservationists refused to let roads be built across the airless lunar landscape.
There was no way she could slip underneath the Dome and walk away from Armstrong, not without an environmental suit. She was trapped here, in the artificial environment, until she could figure out a way to escape.
Her remaining options, then, were theft or seeing if she could find an ally. Despite what she had just done, she wasn’t a criminal. She had no idea how to steal and she would probably be very bad at it. Besides, she wasn’t that desperate yet.
What she needed was someone who would be willing to help her out of the Dome or maybe even off the Moon. That meant finding someone with resources, someone who had a criminal bent, and someone who would be willing to risk upsetting the Rev for helping her.
Most of the people she knew on the Moon were former clients, so the criminal bent wouldn’t be hard to find. She’d gotten almost all of the charges against her clients dropped, so finding someone who would be willing to help her might not be hard either. Most of her former clients—at least the ones who had some sort of moral center—would be predisposed to helping her, even if they had to face Rev justice.
The problem was finding someone with current knowledge and excellent resources. If she found a former client who was willing to help but who also happened to be poor, that person might be willing to sell her to the highest bidder. She’d have to avoid that somehow.
Then she shook her head. Resources didn’t matter. Her clients were former criminals. They might sell her out just for the heck of it.
She leaned against the poorly constructed building, the ancient permaplastic cool against her back. Her lungs didn’t burn as badly any more, but her muscles were heavy with exhaustion. She’d sleep here if she knew how long the Dome would be in darkness, but she didn’t, and as exhausted as she was, she might sleep right through Fake Dawn.
What she needed was the help of a Disappearance service, just like she’d had before. Most of the Disappearance services on the Moon were branch offices. She’d already checked out the dozen main Earth-based services and had found them lacking.
All but Disappearance Inc. And that had proven wrong. Just because it was wrong, though, didn’t mean that she should trust the other Earth-based services.
Instead, she might be better off using a Moon-based service or one with a non-human clientele. If the new Disappearance service could get her out of Armstrong safely, she could even pay them using Maakestad funds
But she would only get one shot at this. A single mistake and she’d be in Rev hands within the hour.
Maybe she was wrong trusting another Disappearance service, but she couldn’t think of any other option. Maybe she would come up with something else.
But whatever she did, she’d have to come up with it soon. She couldn’t stay on the streets of Armstrong forever.
Seventeen
Flint had never been called before the chief of police before. He had seen her, of course. Everyone in the city had. Next to the Dome’s mayor and the head of its provisional government, the police chief was Armstrong’s most visible official.
Her office reflected that. It was in the City Complex, Armstrong’s tallest building. Police operations covered the whole ninth floor, and she had a third of that, which she had subdivided into working areas for some of her more
important assistants.
Her desk stood in front of the wall of shatterproof windows, with a view of the entire city. During the day, it must have been spectacular. Now, however, it simply showed streetlights and building lights fading into the complete darkness of a Dome Night.
Gumiela, who had told Flint about this meeting, had not accompanied him here. So nice to know he had the support of his boss. Of course, he knew he wouldn’t, not with a fugitive on the loose, a fugitive he and his partner had once had in custody.
Assistants had left him in front of the chief’s large desk. They had provided a chair for him to wait in, but he was too restless to sit. He had a feeling that a lot more was going on in Armstrong than the escape. The arrival of the matching space yachts bothered him, as did the presence of the Wygnin. Never, in all his years working space traffic, had he seen a couple of days quite like these.
Something important had changed, and he wasn’t exactly sure what that something important was.
And then there was the matter of the baby.
“Miles Flint,” a familiar voice said.
Flint turned. Olympia Hobell stood behind him, her hands on her hips. She was shorter than he had expected, barely coming up to his shoulders, but she had an athletic build. Her hair had gone silver—probably a planned effect rather than a dislike of enhancements—and there were lines around her mouth and eyes. Her skin still looked youthful, however.
She wore a black silk pantsuit with a pair of walkers beneath. Obviously she had been out on the town when the call had come in, and only had time to change to more practical shoes.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“You’re costing the city thousands of credits this evening,” she said, hands still on her hips. “The sum will go up as long as this fugitive remains at large.”
He wasn’t costing the city anything, but he didn’t want to contradict her. “I should be out searching, sir.”
The lines near her eyes deepened. They looked like laugh lines, and the slight movement made it seem as if she were suppressing a small smile.
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