Through the one-way window, it looked like there were ten Rev in that room. The only human was a balding man who cringed in the corner, hands over his head as if he expected to be hit at any moment.
Not that DeRicci blamed him. Most of the Rev had their emotion collars ruffled, and their weird skin had turned a deep shade of red. There was a lot of anger in that room, and the poor interpreter was alone with all of it.
DeRicci sent word to Flint through his personal link—Where are you? Situation getting grim here—and then squared her shoulders. She pulled the door open and nearly gagged on the stench of ginger.
“Hello, everyone!” she said, hoping the interpreter was still coherent enough to do his job. She knew about five words in Rev, since they rarely made it to the Division. Rev problems usually got dealt with in the Port. “I’m Flint’s partner, and I’ve come to move you to a more comfortable location.”
The Rev were squeezed so tightly in the small room that she wasn’t sure she could get inside.
The interpreter cleared his throat and managed to say something.hether it was what she had said or not, she had no idea.
Then a Rev came forward, his upper arms displayed, something she had never seen before. She knew that Rev had arms and four strange legs that sort of absorbed into their squishy skin when they weren’t using them, but she had never actually seen them. The Rev spoke in a weird, high-pitched growl, and the interpreter stammered out the words in English:
“The Rev aren’t leaving until they have Maakestad.”
DeRicci had learned only one thing about the Rev in all her years working in Armstrong: lying to them was the worst thing anyone could do. But the truth wasn’t pretty at this moment either.
“Tell him I’m just trying to make him more comfortable,” she said to the interpreter.
The interpreter spoke. The Rev growled at DeRicci, and its eyes bulged more. The entire room seemed to vibrate with the force of its words.
“The Rev, um, don’t want to be comfortable. The only way they’ll be comfortable is if you get them off this—these next words are untranslatable. I suppose if they were English, it would be something like Goddamn, but in Rev it’s more like Stupid Yellow Gloves, which makes no sense but then, when do curse words make sense? Anyway, they’d be more comfortable if you get them off this … rock and on their way so that they can complete their duty. If you can’t do that, then tell them why. They demand to know.”
The interpreter spoke rapidly. DeRicci hated his asides, and wondered if that was part of his usual method.
“Spare me the commentary,” she said softly, making sure she looked at him this time, “and just give me the most accurate translation you can.”
The interpreter bobbed his balding head and huddled even closer to the wall.
Then DeRicci said to the Rev, “Look, as you can tell, diplomacy isn’t my forte. We’ve had a delay in bringing the woman to you and I’m not sure what it is. Let me go find out and I promise I’ll be back within the hour.”
The interpreter was speaking as she did. The Rev’s emotion collar had grown even darker.
“There is too much stalling. What is wrong?”
“My partner has been handling this,” DeRicci said, trying to stick to the truth as much as she could. “He told me that he was taking care of everything and that he would be back at the station soon. All I can do is wait, just like you. If you like, we can take you somewhere bigger and cooler—”
“No,” the Rev said. “We will stay here. You will be back within the hour with the woman.”
“I’ll be back with news,” DeRicci said. “I can’t promise the woman.”
“Why not?” the Rev said. “What has happened to her?”
“I’m not sure,” DeRicci said and that was the truth. “As I said, I’ll find out for you.”
“Quickly.” The Rev actually growled the word in English.
“Quickly,” DeRicci said, and stepped back into the cool hallway, pulling the door closed behind her, before she sneezed. Then she sent another message to Flint—Rev becoming a problem. Would you get back here?—annoyed that he hadn’t answered her first one.
She wasn’t equipped to handle these creatures, and she doubted Flint was either. She turned around and headed for the main Division. She’d make the duty clerk request diplomatic help.
Maybe real bureaucrats would know how to stall the Rev. She certainly didn’t.
* * *
Flint drew his laser pistol and trained it on Ekaterina Maakestad. “Set down your purse,” he said.
Her eyes widened. She looked very innocent. She had to know that such a deception wouldn’t work any more; her actions had shown her to be very cunning. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake DeRicci had.
That purse was a marvel, though. It looked too small to hold a weapon. Even when Maakestad slipped her hand inside, a subtle move that he wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching for it, it didn’t look like there was anything threatening inside.
But he knew the damage to the aircar had occurred because a laser pistol had been fired into the secondary systems and that laser pistol was missing. Which meant that she had it.
And she was trapped with him in this small room. She would go for it. Any smart person would.
“Set down the purse,” he repeated, “and don’t even think about using the weapon.”
“Better do what he says.” Paloma sounded regretful. “If there’s any weapons fire in here, my security system will kill the shooter.”
Maakestad clutched the purse to her side for a long moment, obviously taking in the yellowing walls and the low-tech feel of the office. Then, after a moment, she let go of the purse and it fell to the floor.
Flint had her. The search for the fugitive was over.
Paloma watched him from her desk as if she hadn’t seen him before. He hadn’t moved. He still had his pistol out, his thumb still on the trigger.
If he took Maakestad back to the Division now, the Rev would seize her. She would disappear into that prison ship, and no one would see her again.
She wouldn’t be broken like an adult taken to the Wygnin, nor would she be eviscerated in the way that the Disty did. Instead, she would do years of hard labor—labor so difficult that some humans died while performing it—because she had done her job well.
Maakestad stared at him, her gaze defiant. There was no hope on her face at all, and no resignation either. She would go with him, but she would fight him all the way.
And wasn’t that what he would do in her position? After all, what had she really done wrong? She had taken a risk, probably a calculated one, trying to save her client from Rev prison on a charge that he may or may not have been guilty of. If anyone failed, it was that nameless client, who had betrayed her by committing a similar crime. If the client had remained straight, nothing would have happened to Maakestad.
Flint had taken a lot of risks, most of them in the past few days. He weighed the odds and calculated the gamble, betting the letter of the law against what he could get away with, all because he was trying something he believed in.
If he had been a lawyer on Revnata, he might have done the same things Maakestad had tried.
Flint had no idea how long he stood there, holding the pistol on her. She didn’t move. Neither did Paloma. If he fired now, it would be his choice. The security system would take him out after he had taken out Maakestad.
He was informed, and he still had a choice, just like she had. Only he knew it wasn’t worth the risk. He wouldn’t sacrifice his life to take this woman’s. She wasn’t that kind of criminal, and he wasn’t that kind of man.
“Give me the purse,” he said, and his throat felt rusty, as if he hadn’t spoken for a long time. He wondered if his thought processes had shown on his face, and if they had, what the two women had made of them. “Kick it to me.”
She did. It slid across the uneven floor, snagging on a crack. She had to push it one more time to get it cl
ose to him. He used his own foot, like a soccer player corralling a ball, to pull the purse beside him.
Then, keeping his gaze and his pistol trained on Maakestad, he bent down, picked up the purse and handed it to Paloma. She raised her eyebrows at him, and for a moment, he thought she was going to smile.
He was glad that she didn’t.
“How much do I owe you?” he asked her.
She blinked, as if she had forgotten what they had been discussing. But she recovered quickly. “Twenty credits.”
“That’s cheap, Paloma. Charge me what you’d charge your usual customers.”
“You’re not my usual customer, Miles. Twenty credits. That’s all.”
Maakestad continued to watch him. There was a wariness in her face. She thought that Paloma had somehow known she was coming and had turned her over to him.
Let her think that.
“Give me your account and I’ll transfer the credits,” he said.
Paloma handed him a paper business card. He had never seen one before. “The number’s on there,” she said. “Transfer the funds when you leave the office.”
He nodded. Then he turned toward Maakestad. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the pistol.
A slight frown creased her forehead, but other than that, she didn’t move.
“We can keep the Rev busy for the next few hours, maybe. After that, they’ll search for you themselves. Of course, if any of the street patrols find you, they’ll bring you in. If you’re not out of Armstrong by the end of the day, you’re on your own.” Flint put the pistol back on his hip. “You got that?”
Maakestad nodded, looking stunned.
“Good,” he said. “I hope I never see you again.” And he let himself out the door.
It seemed very bright outside, illuminating all the dirt clinging to the buildings and the Dome. He had never really seen how filthy Armstrong was before.
Paloma was probably watching him through her system, wondering what he was doing. DeRicci had wondered what he was doing when he had left her at the hospital. And Maakestad probably wondered what he was doing when he left her inside.
He knew what he was doing. He was making a choice.
But he had a few things to finish before he could think about himself and his own future.
Flint sighed and headed toward the City Complex. He needed to speak to an attorney.
Twenty-seven
Ekaterina was shaking. Her legs felt like they were going to buckle beneath her. She stared at the closed door for a long time.
He would be back. She knew it. He had done this as a bluff, and he would be back with a bevy of officers, restraints, and some kind of armored vehicle she couldn’t tamper with to transport her to the Rev.
But he didn’t come back. The door remained closed, and she was alone with the old woman. The Retrieval Artist named Paloma.
Finally Ekaterina looked at her, unable to contain her astonishment. “I thought he was a cop.”
The old woman smiled fondly and looked at the door. “Oh,” she said softly, “he’s so much better than that.”
* * *
Chief of the First Detective Unit Andrea Gumiela sat on top of her desk like a woman who couldn’t be contained. Her office was larger than any other on the fifth floor, and once upon a time, DeRicci had coveted it.
Now DeRicci didn’t even come all the way inside the door. She hovered in the frame, feeling awkward for even making a request.
“I’m not up to this,” DeRicci said. “I’m afraid I’ll only make the situation worse. I don’t know how to handle the Rev. The Wygnin, maybe. But the Rev are out of my realm of experience. I’m relying on rumor and half-remembered lessons from the Academy, and that’s not enough. We need someone with real diplomatic skills to take care of this.”
Gumiela crossed her arms. “This is a mess of your own making, DeRicci. If you had managed to hold onto the woman—”
“I’m not denying that, ma’am,” DeRicci said. “I’m just trying to keep this from getting worse.”
“Where’s your partner? The chief told me that you both were supposed to take care of the Rev until the fugitive was found.”
“He handled them earlier while I finished up one of our other cases. Now he has some business on yet another case, and I’m supposed to watch them. Only he knows some Rev and I don’t, and frankly that interpreter the chief brought in is next to worthless. He’s cowering down there right now. He practically gibbered at me while I was trying to talk with the Rev the last time.”
“The chief already made up her mind,” Gumiela said. “This is up to the two of you.”
DeRicci shook her head. “The Rev aren’t cooperating. Their emotion collars were turning colors before I even came to see them.”
“I can’t override the chief,” Gumiela said.
“Look,” DeRicci said. “I already know that I’m persona non grata around here. I screwed up with this Maakestad woman and that’s just one screw up in a series of them. But I’m telling you that handling the Rev is beyond me. There are a bunch of Rev in that interrogation room, and they seem to be goading each other on. I can continue trying to handle them, but I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. You need a diplomat.”
“DeRicci, I’ve told you—”
“Demote me, fine me, fire me, I don’t care. But do something. These Rev aren’t going to listen to me or Miles any more, and so far as I know, no one has found Maakestad. That creates a problem that could become some kind of weird interstellar incident. You can blame me for anything that goes wrong, but please, please stop this from getting worse.”
Gumiela tilted her head slightly, as if she were surprised by DeRicci’s outburst. Didn’t she realize that sometimes DeRicci actually cared about her job? Of course not. They all thought DeRicci screwed up because she didn’t care.
Maybe if she didn’t care, she would do a lot better.
“All right,” Gumiela said after a moment. “I’ll see who we can get, and I’ll send them down. Are you going back to talk to them?”
“I promised them I’d be back in an hour with news. We have—” DeRicci checked her link. “—about forty-five minutes now. I don’t think they’ll be real happy to see me again, but if I don’t show up, they’ll be even angrier. So if you can get your diplomat here before then, we might all be better off.”
“I’ll do my best,” Gumiela said, getting down off her desk. “In the meantime, find that woman. If we have her in custody, all of our problems are solved.”
* * *
It took three different messages and some actual discussion across links for Flint to find City Attorney Reese. He was at the Port, finishing negotiations with the Wygnin on the Wilder case.
Flint stopped there first. He didn’t want to see the Wygnin, but he needed to speak to Reese before he put everything in motion.
Flint arrived at the meeting room just outside customs. This area was the nicest part of the Port. The walls were a shiny black material that could change color and texture at a whim. The carpeted floor could also change, according to the preferences of the groups holding the meeting.
Only the conference table remained the same. It had been made on Earth several hundred years ago and had been used in a famous library. It was a rich wood, with clawed feet and brass buttons as trim.
The matching chairs were pushed out in haphazard positions, as if people had just left them and forgotten to slide them back into place.
Another door, at the opposite end of the room, still stood open. It led to the restricted areas of the Port.
Flint peered through the door. Reese was in there, and so was Carryth, the attorney Reese had gotten for the Wilders. Jonathon Wilder, his arm around his son, stood close to Reese and they appeared to be talking.
The boy had his face buried in his father’s shirt. His entire body was shaking, and after a moment, Flint realized that Jasper was crying.
It wasn’t hard to figure out what had just happened. The Wygnin ha
d agreed to Justine Wilder’s terms. She had gone with them, leaving her family behind.
Flint entered the smaller room and cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said, “but I’m here to see Reese.”
Jonathon Wilder looked over at Flint. Wilder’s face was ravaged. He had aged decades in the last day. His eyes were filled with a devastation that Flint recognized, the kind that came with an unimaginable loss.
“It’ll only take a moment,” Flint said.
Reese nodded, then spoke softly and touched Wilder’s arm. Wilder pulled his boy closer and looked at the door leading to the terminals. His wife must have just gone through there to a place that Flint wasn’t even sure he could imagine.
How awful it must have been to let her go, not realizing what she had done until just a few hours ago, and then knowing that even if she did come back—even if the Wygnin let her go or Wilder finally won some kind of court case—her personality would be destroyed forever.
Reese came over, Carryth at his side. They left Wilder staring at the terminal doors, his hand moving soothingly across Jasper’s shoulders.
Flint couldn’t even look at the boy. He’d tried to reassure him that everything would be all right, that his sisters and, by implication, his family would be fine.
But, for all his good intentions, Flint had lied. Maybe the Rev were right. Maybe, in some circumstances, deception was criminal.
“Be succinct,” Reese said as he approached. “This hasn’t been the best day of my life.”
Carryth shot him an annoyed glance, one that he couldn’t see. Carryth understood that the hurt party here wasn’t Reese. It was the Wilder family. They would never be the same.
“Did all of the Wygnin go with Mrs. Wilder?” Flint asked, hoping that he’d gain even more time.
“If only it were that easy,” Reese said.
“Of course not,” Carryth said. “Three Wygnin left with Mrs. Wilder. The other two remain, waiting for young Ennis.”
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