Buried Deep

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  It turned out that she had a lot of impact. She was willing to sacrifice two lives to save her own.

  No wonder the other Retrieval Artists had turned her down.

  “No,” she said, her hands up as if she were warding off a blow. “It’s not about killing.”

  “What’s it about then?”

  “It’s a Disty ritual. I don’t entirely understand it, but here’s how it was explained to me.”

  She took a step closer to the desk, as if she wanted to confide in him. Her voice lowered as well.

  “If the Disty avoided every place where someone died, then they’d have no place to live in the entire universe.”

  “In theory, I suppose,” Flint said.

  She glared at him, then took a deep breath. “I’m giving you my superficial understanding of all of this. I’m new to the Disty, unfortunately. If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be in this mess. All I can tell you is what I learned from some Sahara Dome official who spoke to the Disty and then talked to me. Right now, I’m so contaminated that I can’t talk to any Disty.”

  Flint frowned. She had said something about contamination, but that had been when he wasn’t paying a lot of attention.

  “Anyway, the Disty have a way of cleansing areas where corpses were found. Family members of the deceased do some kind of thing with fire and sixteen days of silence, and sprinkling a special kind of liquid on the spot. Then no one goes near the site for a month or more, depending on the length of time the corpse spent there. Finally, some other Disty is sent in to make sure the decontamination happened. If he clears it, then the area’s safe again.”

  “And the people who are contaminated?” Flint asked.

  “They have to go through some other kind of ritual, also with the family of the deceased. No one would explain that to me, except to say it’s harmless.”

  Flint had heard of stranger rituals, so he didn’t doubt that this one could exist. But he would look up the Disty death contamination rites when Costard left, whether he took the case or not. His curiosity again. It always got the best of him.

  “What happens if the family members can’t be found?” Flint asked.

  She blinked rapidly, as if her eyes were filling with tears. She bent her head, wiped at the corner of one eye, and then took a deep breath.

  “Ms. Costard?” Flint made certain his voice was harsh. He couldn’t give her sympathy at this moment. He had a hunch she would respond to it badly.

  She nodded, once, acknowledging him but not looking up. Then she held up a hand, took another deep breath, and raised her head.

  Her eyes were red and so was the tip of her nose. She looked helpless and frightened. He had a hunch he was finally seeing her core personality. She was overwhelmed and out of her league, and from what he had listened to in her story, no one had tried to make things easier for her.

  He wouldn’t either, just by the nature of his job. Yet for the first time since she had come in the door, he felt compassion for her.

  “What do they do?” he asked again.

  She swallowed hard, squared her shoulders, and straightened her spine. She raised her chin slightly. “They use the people involved with the body—and I use ‘people’ loosely. It could mean Disty, it could mean humans, it could mean Revs—anyone who was near the body when it was found—and these people have to do the decontamination work.”

  Her voice hitched and she stopped. When it became clear that she wasn’t going to say anything else, he spoke.

  “Is this decontamination work a ritual as well?”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t told the details, so I looked them up. Torture—that’s what we’d call it. The use of bodily fluids—not necessarily blood, although that’s the preferred fluid from humans—combined with an exchange of body parts, detached, and some other really grotesque things that I don’t want to describe. I don’t even want to think about them.”

  Her voice sped up as she recounted this. She had threaded her fingers together and she was twisting them, twisting, twisting, twisting, as if the very act could make her words disappear.

  “I’m told that not many humans survive this decontamination process.”

  “What about Disty?” he asked. “Do they survive?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

  He leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers, tapping them against his chin. He had seen the results of Disty vengeance killings—corpses splayed, their intestines removed and used to decorate a room. The blood spatter around the human victims of vengeance killings always indicated the victims were alive while they were being disemboweled.

  If the Disty could do that, they could come up with equally vicious things for a “decontamination ritual.”

  “How long do you have before the Disty conclude that the children no longer exist?” he asked.

  “Initially, only a month,” she said. “But I was able to show the Disty that Jørgen’s body had been under a building for thirty years and that she hadn’t been killed on site.”

  “Show them?” Flint asked. “I thought you couldn’t interact with them because of your contamination.”

  “Apparently, contamination doesn’t spread to equipment,” she said. “Or at least to vids. I made a recording of my evidence, explaining everything clearly, and the SDHPD showed that recording to a Disty Death Squad. The Death Squad determined that the contamination wasn’t quite as bad if the body had been killed off-site, so they gave us an extension.’

  “An extension?” he asked. “As if you hadn’t paid your rent on time?”

  She gave him a distracted smile. “Not quite like that. Their laws determine the level of contamination and the time it takes to recover. The longer the corpse remains at its place of death, the more the contamination grows, but apparently, the corpse takes less contamination with it when it moves to a new location. The thirty-year-time span was shorter than the Disty had expected, and the fact that Jørgen was killed off-site took some pressure down too. So we have six months to find family members.”

  “Six months,” Flint repeated, thinking about the magnitude of the case. He hadn’t had a case this involved, but during his training, Paloma had told him of cases that she had worked on which had taken years to resolve. She had given him a rule of thumb: the more alien groups involved, the more off-Moon locations involved, the longer the investigation would take.

  “It’s not really six months any more,” Costard said. “I used up a week making my determinations, and the Disty used another week before they decided to believe me. Then I’ve spent another week searching for a Retrieval Artist to take my case.”

  “There aren’t any Trackers on staff at the Sahara Dome Human Police Department?” Flint asked. A lot of departments all over the galaxy had Trackers, many of whom were cops as well.

  She shook her head. “The SDHPD is a for-show police force. They keep the humans in line for the Disty and take care of human-on-human crime, which the Disty don’t want to deal with. But anything that happens outside the Dome isn’t the Disty’s concern—unless it had some kind of impact on them, and then they handle it, in ways that I don’t entirely understand.”

  Flint flashed on the last vengeance killing he had seen. Three humans, murdered in a space yacht, their bodies splayed in typical Disty style. The mess had been awful. The stench had been worse.

  “You could hire a private detective,” Flint said. “It would be cheaper.”

  “Jørgen Disappeared,” Costard said.

  “Jørgen tried to Disappear,” Flint said. “From what you tell me, she failed. Chances are the children failed as well. For all you know, they could be buried under nearby buildings.”

  Costard shuddered. “I like to think they Disappeared.”

  Flint stood. The walls of the office felt closer than they had, probably because of all the talk of the Disty and their nasty ways.

  “I used to be a police officer, Ms. Costard,” he said. “You learn pretty quickly that the most obvious solutio
n is usually what happened. The obvious thing here is that Jørgen and her children were caught before they could finalize their Disappearance, they got killed, and their bodies were scattered on building sites. A good private detective can find this out for you, and charge you so much less than I can.”

  “But what happens if you’re wrong, Mr. Flint?” she asked. “What happens if the children did Disappear? Aren’t I better off hiring you, a man who is trained as a detective and who knows how to find Disappeared, than hiring someone who could screw up a Disappearance investigation?”

  He said nothing. She had finally caught his attention. All of it.

  “To me,” she said, “the worst-case scenario is that Jørgen managed to get her children away from the M’Kri Tribesmen but wasn’t able to save herself from…whatever killed her. The children are safe. They grow up, they’re functional adult humans, and then my hired detective blunders his investigation. The M’Kri Tribesmen find the children, take them away, and will not let them come to Sahara Dome to help us decontaminate their mother’s final resting site. Whereas if I hire you, the children would be safe and they could come to Sahara Dome and—”

  “There’s no guarantee that they’d be safe just because you hired me,” Flint said. “I’d be more cautious than your fictitious detective, that’s for sure, but I could still trigger an investigation that would end up in their getting captured by the M’Kri. That’s one of the risks you take any time you hire a Retrieval Artist.”

  “But theoretically, you do your best to minimize that risk,” she said. “That’s why I would hire you. To protect all sides—the children, me, the others from the SDHPD—and to give us a chance. Please, Mr. Flint. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  He wasn’t going to let that pressure make him decide to take a case. “Why did the other Retrieval Artists turn you down?”

  She flashed him that glare again. “Let’s see. The first three—all of whom worked in Sahara Dome—didn’t want to cross the Disty. You see, if you get near this corpse, you could be contaminated.”

  “I wouldn’t get near it,” Flint said.

  “That was my argument,” she said, “but those three wouldn’t hear of it. So I talked to a Retrieval Artist in White Rock. He only worked with Disappeareds who might be on Mars, and he figured if Jørgen managed to get her children away, they wouldn’t be on Mars, particularly if she died there.”

  “That’s false reasoning,” Flint said.

  “No kidding.” Costard was using the voice she had originally used when she came into the office, the voice that spared no one and covered a litany of problems, all as if they had personally offended her—which, Flint supposed, they had.

  “And the other four Retrieval Artists?” Flint asked.

  “Two were in Pathfinder City. One refused to deal with a nonrelative and one only worked with insurance companies and lawyers. The last two were in Aram Chaos, and like the others, they only spoke through my links. One of those Retrieval Artists promised to get back to me but never did, and the other told me that taking my case was a death wish, not just because of the Disty, but because of M’Kri Tribesmen.”

  “I thought you told me they don’t kill,” Flint said.

  “They don’t. I told him that, and he said I was misinformed. So I went back later and checked my research. They don’t kill, but I couldn’t convince him of that, and since I couldn’t convince him, I couldn’t hire him either. I traveled all over that damn planet, and no one would help me. So I came here.” She put her hands on her hips. “And now I’m beginning to believe I have to apply to the Disty for a special permit to return to Earth, because you’re not going to help me either, are you, Mr. Flint?”

  “There are other Retrieval Artists on the Moon,” he said.

  “I’ve researched them. Most seem pretty unreliable.”

  “You found a lot on me?” he asked, stunned. He had been careful to keep the information about himself to a minimum.

  “Not as a Retrieval Artist,” she said. “But I like your police background, and you have some computer experience as well. And….”

  Her voice trailed off. His heart had started beating hard. He had a hunch that he knew what she was going to say, but he didn’t want to assume. He wanted her to tell him.

  “And?” he asked.

  “I saw you plead with the authorities to shut down that day care center. That old vid is really affecting. And I figured someone who cared that much once might do so again.”

  Flint’s stomach churned. He wanted to snap at her, Anyone would care about that. My daughter died there. But one of the main rules of Retrieving was to keep his emotions to himself. Keep the personal private at all times.

  He wished he could get that vid out of all the various archives, so that it never came up when someone searched his background. But he couldn’t. It had been duplicated so many times, he would never find all of the copies.

  It was there for his future and former clients, as well as his enemies, to find.

  “You would base your future on an ancient news story?” he asked, careful to keep his voice level.

  She shrugged. “You Retrieval Artists like to be mysterious. I’ll do what I can to find the best person for the job. But you don’t want it either, do you?”

  He wasn’t afraid of the Disty—at least, not in the ways that Martian Retrieval Artists were. And he was intrigued. But he had a lot of hesitations.

  “I don’t make decisions on the spur of the moment,” he said.

  Her shoulders fell. She looked almost as if she had collapsed in on herself.

  “But,” he said, “I’ll take a retainer, and research all that you’ve told me. If it checks out, I’ll take the case.”

  For a moment, she didn’t move. Then she raised her head, her mouth parted slightly. “What?” she whispered.

  “I’m going to investigate you,” he said. “You and the Disty and the Tribesmen and Ms. Jørgen. If I’m satisfied with what I find, I’ll take the case. If not, I’ll keep the retainer for my time, and send you to someone else.”

  “You will?” Her voice rose. “Really?”

  He wasn’t sure she had heard him. Or if she had, that she understood him. “I’m not saying I’ll take the case yet.”

  “But you’ll at least listen. You’ll see that I’m not lying to you. Oh, Mr. Flint, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I don’t care about thanks,” he said. “I care about credits in my account.”

  “Right,” she said as if she were in a daze. “Right. Credits.”

  She grabbed his hand. The warmth of her skin startled him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had voluntarily touched him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for giving me a chance to save my life.”

  Twelve

  Noelle DeRicci stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows in her new office. It smelled of fresh paint and varnish. She’d had the environmental controls on for two days now, but it hadn’t made any difference. The smell still lingered.

  The windows made her nervous. Ever since the explosion more than a year ago that knocked a hole in the Dome, she’d been leery of windows. They seemed artificial, unnecessary, a danger. She worried about them shattering, about crooks or terrorists breaking in through them, about air seeping out of them.

  She worried about everything.

  She sighed. From here she could see the section of the Dome where the explosion had occurred. In the arching curve of the Dome that controlled Armstrong’s light and environment, she could still see cracks that ran along the interior of the frame.

  No need to worry, the engineers told her. There were four levels of redundancy in the Dome itself. The cracks were only in the lower layer, the one that didn’t expose the Dome to the Moon’s harsh environment.

  No need to worry.

  But she did anyway. That was her job.

  She sighed, and looked at the scorch marks still visible during Dome Daylight. The fire in that section
of the Dome had leveled everything. The scorch marks were less important than the cracks. Since no one had fixed the cracks yet, no one had even thought of the scorch marks, black against the artificial light that hid the Moon’s sky.

  DeRicci clasped her hands tightly behind her back. She had taken this office precisely for its view. She wanted the reminder of the horrors the Dome could experience.

  She wanted to remind herself every day what could happen if she screwed up.

  DeRicci turned away from the windows and headed toward her desk. The office had been designed by some fancy architect who was trying to make his name outside the Moon. Of course, the United Domes had sponsored him, giving him this commission as if they were bestowing a gift, and he did all sorts of fancy things that would impress all the outsiders who visited Armstrong on business.

  DeRicci hadn’t known anything about the project, of course. When the powers that be had decided on a Moon-wide security office, she had been a lowly detective, working murder cases.

  After she had taken this job, she had learned that the security position had been in the works for years—since before the Moon Marathon. Somehow she had thought that the twin disasters of the marathon and the explosion had frightened the politicians into creating this office.

  Instead, those disasters had simply given the politicians an excuse.

  Learning that had convinced her that she had made the right decision. The job needed someone like her, someone who had been in the trenches and yet knew how regulation could tie people’s hands as well as protect them. She knew all the dangers and she was determined to avoid them.

  DeRicci couldn’t bring herself to sit down at her new desk. Some interior designer had thought that transparent furniture would go with the window-covered walls and the clear ceiling. The chairs had lines around the frames—faint white lines, so a person didn’t sit on a chair that wasn’t there—and so did the desk. The tables had no such outlines, and were only visible because of the items placed on top of them.