The Rev did not appreciate shades of the truth. They were always as honest as possible. Early on, that had made them victims of human business schemes. For a while, the Rev had thought humans completely untrustworthy. Then they learned that humans had a different appreciation for truth than the Rev did.
While the Rev understood the differences, it did often cause them to react with anger to a human much quicker than they would with their own kind.
And while the Rev couldn’t always figure out a half-truth, they could often sense a complete lie.
“You are stalling,” the Rev said.
“Yes,” Flint said, relieved not to have to lie about that. “I want to wait for the interpreter.”
“Then you will get our woman,” the Rev said.
“If we agree that’s who she is,” Flint said, hoping he wasn’t lying now.
The Rev turned toward his companions. They hadn’t moved at all during the discussion. They spoke rapid Rev, and Flint only caught every fourth or fifth word. After a moment, the spokesrev turned back toward him.
“We shall wait for your interpreter. You may return when the interpreter arrives.”
They were dismissing him. Flint felt an odd kind of relief. “Is there something I can get you that will make you more comfortable?”
“No,” the Rev said. “We will not be here long enough to get comfortable.”
Flint made himself smile and nod, hoping that the Rev was right.
* * *
The night was strangely quiet. It had been a long time since Ekaterina had been inside a dome. She had forgotten how dome acoustics worked. Loud sounds could echo, but unlike Earth on a quiet night, soft sounds didn’t seem to register at all.
She moved slower because of that. She was being more cautious than she would have been at home.
The darkened neighborhood seemed to go on for at least a mile. She had crossed a lot of fences, wound her way through a lot of yards.
Apparently, no pets were allowed in this part of Armstrong. She heard no barking dogs, ran across no cats. At the moment, she was very grateful for that.
She had finally reached a poorly tended block. The gardens had died off, and the plants had either gone to seed or disappeared entirely. Some desert plants had grown up in the artificially rich soil—apparently reclaiming the area or seeding from somewhere else.
Most of the houses appeared to be uninhabited, but those that were had large, ostentatious locks on the doors, a kind she hadn’t seen anywhere on Earth outside of museums. The locks seemed to be there as a statement, not for protection.
As she got closer to some of the houses, she realized they were made of permaplastic, a material that wasn’t used much at all any more. Early colonists on the Moon and Mars had used a lot of it—the material was durable, even in unpredictable environments. But then, scientists had developed other materials, many of which could be grown once the colonists reached the habitable planet, and permaplastic fell out of use.
She had to be in one of the oldest areas of Armstrong. Her empty stomach knotted. She hoped this area was just impoverished and not a crime center the way many other older areas of cities were. If this was a high crime place, she might be walking straight into the hands of the authorities.
Here there were no street lights at all. The air felt even thinner, and she hadn’t been running this time. She wondered if the processors in the older sections of the Dome weren’t as efficient.
On a corner lot at the very end of the block, a house stood, its doors open. Her heart was pounding hard. Either the house was abandoned or someone had deliberately left it this way, maybe to attract vagrants—or fugitives.
All she knew was that she would have to stop moving soon. She wasn’t sure when she last slept, and she was beginning to have micronaps as she walked. Eventually her body would force her to rest whether she wanted to or not—and it might do so out in the open, where anyone could find her.
If she found shelter, even for a few hours, she would be refreshed enough to move on. Or as her grandmother used to say, The body can do without food or sleep, but it cannot do without both. And it could not do without water either. She was getting dehydrated and she knew it.
She would need to take care of herself, and soon.
She approached the house, breathing shallowly, her own heartbeat so loud she was sure people heard it blocks away. Nothing moved inside—or at least, nothing she could hear.
The last thing she wanted to do was go into a place filled with indigents. They could be crazy, violent, or both. The last time she had been in Armstrong, almost a decade ago, the city had had a large indigent problem. She doubted things had gotten any better. After all, what could the city managers do? Throw the indigents outside the dome?
One wall had fallen inward. Apparently, it had lost some of its supports, a common problem with old permaplastic. The permaplastic survived longer than the materials used to hold it together. She stared at the wall for a long moment. It was a warning to her that this building wouldn’t be very stable. Maybe that was why it was so silent, because everyone else knew better than to attempt to go inside.
Still, she had to try. She was nearly collapsing with exhaustion. She glanced over her shoulder. She still appeared to be alone on the street—not that she could completely tell in this darkness.
Then she mounted the back stair and went inside the open door.
The building smelled of old urine and decay. Someone or something had died in here. She couldn’t tell how long ago because one of the disadvantages of aging permaplastic was that it tended to absorb odors.
The floor seemed sturdy enough. She walked across it, wishing she had a light. It was even darker in here. She hoped she wouldn’t step on anyone—alive or dead.
Her feet hit a pile of something that clattered across the floor. She froze, the sound so loud she was convinced they’d heard it on Earth. Her heart pounded, and her breathing sped up.
There was no answering sound. No one swore and came toward her. No one screamed. No one shouted, There she is! and burst into the building.
She was really and truly alone.
She crouched, and felt for what her feet had touched. A pile of empty food cartons, their interiors sticky, and clearly the source of the rotting smell. Someone had been here before her, used the shelter, and left.
It was a good sign if no one had touched the food cartons. She went deeper into the building, far away from the collapsed wall and the smell of urine. Some pieces of furniture remained—also permaplastic and worthless.
She felt the chairs, found dust on them, but nothing that was as disagreeable as the decaying food in the other room. She pulled two chairs together. They were wide enough for her to use as a bed, and their arms were high enough to hide her from prying eyes.
All she needed was a short nap. When she woke up, she’d have ideas on ways to get out of Armstrong. If she was still alone. And safe.
Nineteen
The interpreter was a balding, middle-aged man who wore an expensive, tailored business suit. His face, while thin, had cascaded into jowls and his neck had a crepe-papery look to it that Flint had never seen on a modern human.
People who regularly did business with the Rev did not use physical enhancements. The Rev saw enhancements as a form of deception and respected no one who used them.
The interpreter was waiting in the main Division—no one had taken him to the Detective Unit upstairs or interrogation in the back. The main Division area was full—people in uniform going about their business, the duty clerk processing visitors, and the usual stream of victims, supplicants, and suspects, each there for a different reason.
The volume in here was always loud—shouts mingled with tears, laughter, and everything in between. The smells were omnipresent too—perfumes, sweat, and occasional overwhelming alien body odor. The place never stayed the same, and that was part of its charm.
Sometimes Flint didn’t really see the people who filled the entry.
They were part of the scenery, an ever-flowing, ever changing group that was as normal a part of this place as the walls.
But the interpreter noticed. He cringed every time someone brushed against him.
Not a government employee then. Flint would wager his entire year’s salary that this interpreter did the bulk of his work for private firms.
“Hello,” Flint said, as he approached the interpreter, hand outstretched. “I’m Detective Flint. I’m sorry you were waiting. The Rev are in the back.”
The man looked up at him, his eyes pale and watery. “Are they angry?”
There was a touch of fear in his voice. He didn’t even seem to notice Flint’s hand.
“I was told,” the man continued, not letting Flint answer, “that this is a criminal matter. The Rev hate criminal matters, especially if it’s not going their way.”
“Right now, they’re being patient,” Flint said. “Which is surprising given they’ve had to deal with me and my inadequate Rev. But they’ll be happy to have a person who understands their customs and language in the room.”
“I’ve never done criminal work with the Rev before,” the man said, “but the chief called me. How serious is this?”
The chief, huh? Apparently she called the best interpreter rather than use one of the ones on city payroll. Flint couldn’t argue with that. Neither of them wanted this situation to get any worse.
“Very serious,” Flint said. “That’s why you’re here. Come with me.”
It wasn’t until they started walking that Flint realized he had forgotten to ask the man’s name. Not that it really mattered. If he needed the guy again, the chief’s office would know how to find him.
They had just reached the duty clerk’s tall sign-in desk when Flint saw a familiar figure enter the corridor.
“DeRicci!” he shouted. Then, realizing his voice didn’t really carry over the din, he shouted even louder, “DeRicci!”
She stopped, turned, saw him, and made a face. Then she approached. “I thought you were in interrogation.”
“I needed an interpreter.” Flint nodded toward the balding man standing beside him.
DeRicci’s gaze took in everything about the interpreter, and then gave her opinion: contempt. It was an amazing opinion from a woman whose clothing was torn, whose hair looked like it had been through a windstorm, and whose face was streaked with the brown dust of Earth’s dead Moon.
“You just arrived?” she asked the interpreter.
“I just found out about it, yes,” he said, bobbing as he spoke to her. Flint was sure he’d never seen such a timid interpreter. He wasn’t sure if it was the Division that scared this little man, the fact that he was about to face potentially angry Rev, or both.
“I thought you said to hurry.” Now she was speaking to Flint.
“I did,” he said, “and it doesn’t seem like you listened.”
She shrugged, taking in the room. “Screwed up, Flint.”
“We both did.” Flint had the sense that she was angry at him, but he didn’t care. She still had her job, and so did he. “I promised the Rev we’d go in there as soon as the interpreter arrived.”
“What a day this is,” DeRicci said. “Starts with the Wygnin, moves onto the Rev.”
“You’re handling the Wygnin?” This time, the voice came from above them. Both Flint and DeRicci looked up.
The duty clerk was staring down at them, her expression pinched.
“On one case, yes,” Flint said.
“The children, right?”
“Right,” DeRicci said, sounding wary.
The interpreter moved closer to the desk, as if he were trying to get out of the way of the free flow of people.
“Some people just came in from Tycho Station. I put a uniform with them until I found who was supposed to be responsible for them.”
“On the Wygnin case?” Flint asked the duty clerk.
“Parents,” DeRicci said, punching his arm. Then she turned to the duty clerk. “Where are they?”
“Witness holding,” the duty clerk said. “It seemed the most private.”
DeRicci nodded. “Come on, Flint.”
Technically, the children were his responsibility. He knew what she was doing: she was taking over the entire Wygnin case so that she wouldn’t have to deal with the Rev.
He was tempted to let her do it, but that meant accompanying the interpreter to the interrogation room. The longer Flint stayed away from the Rev, the better. That way he wouldn’t be forced to lie.
He turned to the interpreter. “The Rev are in an interrogation room. They’re probably going to want some refreshments of some kind. It was warm in there.”
“I’m not a waitress,” the interpreter said.
Flint shrugged. “Suit yourself. I get very cranky when my blood sugar’s low. I wonder what the Rev are like.”
“But I don’t know where anything is here,” the interpreter said.
“The duty clerk will help you,” DeRicci said. “Come on, Flint.”
“I’ll be back shortly,” he said to the interpreter. “Go over their warrant, and then I’ll join you.”
The interpreter was shaking his head, still making weak protests, as Flint and DeRicci walked away.
“They sent someone like that to go head-to-head with the Rev?” DeRicci asked.
“Hobell picked him out herself.”
DeRicci whistled. “So that’s what happens when there’s too much alien contact.”
She didn’t even smile after the comment. Flint wasn’t sure if she was joking or not.
The corridor was wide through here because so many civilians used it. Many of them were witnesses, but just as many were victims or the victims’ families, and the designers of this Division, at least, felt that there should be some measure of comfort in the surroundings.
Originally, the walls had been painted a calming blue, but that had faded to a dirty gray over time. The floor was scuffed, and the once-white ceiling had yellowed. Instead of offering comfort, this place always reminded Flint that anything once touched with bright promise could become old and abused.
“You’re quiet,” DeRicci said. Except for the occasional uniform going the other way, they were the only two people in the corridor.
“Long day,” Flint said.
“How’d you keep Hobell from demoting us?”
He shrugged. “I told her the truth.”
“Which was?”
“That we were initially told that Palmer might be a tourist.”
DeRicci looked at him sideways, a smile playing on her lips. “You’re beginning to fascinate me, Flint.”
“Why is that?” he asked as they rounded the last corner to the observation decks.
“Because you look so sweet and innocent, and you’re not.”
“I was a cop for a long time before I became a detective,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said, “but that face of yours. Unenhanced and so naïve. Anyone would think you’re a pushover.”
“Did you?” he asked.
“You seemed like it at first.” Her smile eased into a grin. “I’m glad you finally came out of your shell.”
They reached the double doors that marked the entrance to witness holding. DeRicci put her hand on the security panel. The locks clicked open. As they did, she asked for the witnesses in the Wygnin case. The computer gave her the site of the holding room.
The first time Flint had entered this part of the building, he had thought of it as a hall of mirrors. Instead of walls, on either side of him were floor to ceiling windows of one-way glass. The glass overlooked holding rooms—they were too plush to be called cells—where witnesses were told they were to sit and wait until someone came for them.
More than one witness had confessed to a crime in these rooms, and hundreds of others had divulged secrets that they thought would never be overhead. Flint was always amazed at the stupidity of the average criminal and his accomplices, and now he was glad for it.
>
If every criminal were as smart as Greta Palmer, his job would be a lot harder.
Jasper’s parents were in the third room on Flint’s right. As DeRicci headed toward the one-way window, she pulled out her hand-held and called up the warrant the Wygnin had given her. Flint watched it appear on the screen, along with images of the crime scene and the so-called criminals which Flint had not seen before.
DeRicci didn’t even look down at her hand-held. She wasn’t concerned about it, not yet. Instead, she stopped in front of the one-way glass.
Flint stopped beside her. This particular holding area was one of the smaller ones, but it was plush. The room had been done in warm browns and tans. The carpet was thick, perfect to sit on if need be, and the couch looked inviting.
Mugs sat on the table in the center of the room, along with some cookies that didn’t look like department issue. The uniform sat on the only metal chair. She was staring at the window as if willing someone to rescue her.
The man—Jasper’s father—was pacing, hands in his pockets, body hunched. He had the same red hair that his son had, and his skin was pale but freckled.
His wife sat on the edge of an overstuffed chair, her back perfectly straight, her legs to one side with her ankles crossed. Her brown hair had been pulled away from her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were downcast, her hands folded in her lap.
She almost seemed like a supplicant, waiting in one of Armstrong’s many churches for someone to forgive her.
“Damn,” DeRicci said.
“What?” Flint frowned at her. She was staring at her hand-held.
“Look at this.” She touched a corner, and the holo-representation of one of the images rose above the screen’s surface. It was a woman’s head, now rendered in three dimensions. She had brown hair, light skin, and a heart-shaped face.
Flint studied it, then moved slightly so that he could see both the hologram and the woman in the room. The woman sitting on the edge of the upholstered chair was older, had had some enhancements that altered the shape of her mouth and nose, but her eyes were the same. And so was her hairline and that uniquely shaped face.
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