The Scorpion Jar

by Jason M. Hardy

  “Paladin Levin. Paladin GioAvanti. Come in.” He sounded stiff, and again Jonah couldn’t blame him. He didn’t add a point to either side of the ledger.

  They followed him into the room, and he turned and actually smiled, albeit wanly. “I apologize for all the paper. I feel like I’m back in the academy, studying for an exam.”

  “What is all this?” Heather asked, idly picking up the sheet nearest to her.

  “Information on all of you. All the other Paladins. Background, experience, political leanings. I’m going to have to vote for one of you in two days—a day and a half—after all.”

  “Haven’t you heard of datafiles?”

  Sinclair gave an embarrassed shrug. “I’ve always done better with paper. Things stick in my mind if I read it off a sheet.”

  Jonah put a point into the column in favor of Sinclair’s innocence. The fact that he was taking his responsibilities so seriously, even after Jonah’s previous talk with him, was a credit to him.

  On the other hand, there were hundreds of pieces of paper scattered across the room. Sinclair had not been Paladin long, but he had either amassed a considerable body of information in that brief time or, knowing he would become Paladin, he had been assembling it for months. A point went in the column against him.

  “I’d like to think the two of you came here to pull me away from work and buy me a drink,” Sinclair said.

  “I’d very much like to do that, Gareth,” Jonah said. “I hope I’ll be able to soon. But not now. We need to talk.”

  Sinclair attempted another smile, even weaker than the first. “ ‘We need to talk.’ Four of the most dire words in our vocabulary.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Talk.”

  Jonah gestured at the papers all over the room. “This may not be the best place for a chat.”

  “Not controlled enough of an environment, huh?” Sinclair said with an edge to his voice, then waved off attempted protests from both Heather and Jonah. “No, no, I’m sorry, you’re right. Where did you have in mind? And please don’t just say ‘Come with us.” ’

  “Let’s go back to my office,” Jonah said.

  “Okay,” Sinclair said. “Should be quiet enough. And plenty of nearby security if you need it.”

  Sinclair said the last with a light tone, but no one cracked a grin.

  Sinclair came along quietly. None of them said a single word on the way to Jonah’s office, but Sinclair showed no signs of desperation, no sudden urge to escape. Another point in his favor.

  In the hallways of the Paladins’ offices, they started walking briskly and then picked up the pace from there. Each of them was pushing the others, hurrying them along, until they were practically running by the time they reached Jonah’s office. They all wanted to get this over with.

  All three sat. Sinclair was ramrod straight, hands resting on the end of his chair’s armrests as if he expected Jonah and Heather to shackle him there at any moment.

  “We have Henrik Morten,” Jonah said to get things under way.

  Sinclair brightened, and Jonah immediately added a point to the good side of the ledger. “That’s great! Hopefully he can help clear things up. He’ll tell you I haven’t hired him for years, he can confirm everything . . .” Sinclair’s voice faded as he saw Heather and Jonah’s dour expressions. “He didn’t confirm anything, did he? In fact, he probably told you exactly the opposite.” He nodded to himself. “Okay. That’s why I’m here. I think I understand.”

  Right then, in his mind, Jonah crumpled the ledger on which he’d been keeping track of points into a little ball and threw it away. He’d never liked playing the game, and now was precisely the wrong time to start. He had Sinclair here, and he looked willing to talk. Jonah just had to listen.

  “It gets worse,” Heather said. “We’ve found evidence that you helped funnel some money to the Kittery Renaissance.”

  “I helped funnel money to what?” Sinclair exclaimed. “Kittery Renaissance? I’d never fund terrorists, but especially terrorists I don’t agree with! How can you think I’d do that?”

  Heather started to speak, but Jonah interrupted. “We don’t,” he said, and Heather looked at him in surprise. “We have evidence that your bank accounts were involved, but I don’t think you were.”

  Sinclair looked even more surprised than Heather. “You don’t? Is Morten backing me up?”

  “No,” Jonah said. “Morten is acting like you’ve been one of his best employers recently. But his fingerprints are all over both Victor’s assassination and this transfer of money to Kittery Renaissance. I don’t trust him. I trust you. All I need is for you to help us figure out why things look the way they do.”

  The atmosphere in the room changed completely, as if Jonah had just opened the curtains to let sunlight in. Sinclair’s stiff posture relaxed, and his face took on an expression of thoughtfulness instead of defensiveness. Heather, seeing this, relaxed as well.

  Jonah didn’t. Most of him believed he could trust Sinclair, but there remained a small part of him warning that the moment he relaxed was the moment Sinclair would make his move.

  “Okay,” said Sinclair. “Tell me about this money transfer.”

  “What time is it?” Jonah asked when Sinclair stifled a yawn.

  Heather checked her chronometer. “2:30.”

  “It’s election eve. We convene in thirty-one hours.”

  “Is there any chance we’ll get some sleep between now and then?” Heather asked.

  “Very little,” Jonah said.

  Heather stood, stretched and smiled. “You know what the good thing about this time of morning is? I haven’t heard from Duncan for almost seven hours.”

  “Which reminds me. Aren’t you supposed to be preparing some sort of strike? How much of your time have I wasted?” Jonah asked.

  “Santangelo and Koss are on it. They’ll bring me up to speed on that side of things in the morning. And believe me, this wasn’t a waste.” She turned to Sinclair. “Although I have to say, Gareth, I’m a little disappointed in you.”

  “Why?”

  “A small part of me—a very, very small part—hoped you’d have actual connections to the Kittery Renaissance. Then we could get you to smoke out their leaders, and our strike tomorrow would smash the whole organization.”

  “It still might,” Jonah said, “if you’ve connected the dots right.”

  “I hope so,” Heather said, then tilted her head. “Do either of you know if the training room is open this time of night? Er, morning?”

  “I’ve never had reason to check,” Jonah said.

  “We have a training room?” Sinclair asked.

  “Thanks. You two are very helpful. Well, one way to find out. Good night, gentlemen. And good luck. Let me know as tomorrow’s plans evolve.”

  “We will,” Jonah said, and she left.

  That left Jonah and Sinclair alone. They had a tremendous mountain to climb before the newly born day had ended, but for the moment they just sat.

  “You know the papers I had back in my hotel?” Sinclair said. “Do you know what word kept popping up in your dossier?”

  “ ‘Bastard?” ’ Jonah said.

  Sinclair grinned, the first fully open smile he had offered all night. “Yes, actually. Usually right after the word ‘tough.’ But that’s not the one I was thinking about. Over and over again, people who dealt with you said you were incredibly fair.”

  Jonah didn’t know if he should say “Oh, good,” or “Thank you,” so he said nothing.

  “It’s good to know my sources are accurate. There’s a lot of people who would have had electrodes under my fingernails the minute they took me in.”

  “I know. I’ve seen too many of them.”

  “I just want to—thanks. That’s all.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Jonah said. “Thank me when we’re out of this.”

  “Right. And we have plenty to do. Let’s move.”

  Jonah pulled his keyboard to him. He typed a brief m
essage, which flew through the air to a small, sparse apartment in Les Rues-Basses.

  It began:

  WE NEED TO EXTRACT SOME PASSWORDS FROM THE SUBJECT.

  48

  Hall of Government, Geneva

  Terra, Prefecture X

  19 December 3134

  Support staff arrived at the offices of the Senate of the Republic starting at six a.m. This was usually a skeletal group, a few custodians and the cafeteria staff. More arrived at seven, including members of the senatorial staffs. By eight, the building would hold nearly its full complement of personnel.

  It was four o’clock. They had two hours to work before things started to get dicey.

  This was the sort of job Jonah would desperately have liked to farm out to someone else, as a Paladin being caught breaking and entering into government buildings could cause an unfathomably long line of complications. Horn, though, already had his hands full, and Wilson Turk, most likely fast asleep, wasn’t responding to any calls. Time was too short to travel to Turk and wake him personally, or to find anyone else. He and his new partner in crime, who had been his prime suspect until a few hours ago, would have to do it themselves.

  The one advantage they had, their rank, would help a little. It would get them past any automated checkpoints, but not past any humans. The way the political situation stood, flashing identification at the guards might not be the best idea. If their suspicions were correct, any guard who connected a name to their face would likely make several phone calls, and there was a good chance that the sort of people often employed by Henrik Morten would show up to interrupt Jonah’s work. He had to get in unseen.

  Jonah wasn’t entirely comfortable with cloak-and-dagger actions, but it was better than meetings. At least it got his adrenaline flowing.

  The night was purple, the endless streetlights bouncing their glow off the high clouds hanging over the city. Under the clouds, the air was clear, and visibility was good. Spotting an intruder in these conditions would be scarcely more difficult than seeing them in daylight.

  In the end, it looked like one of Jonah’s favorite battlefield tactics—diversion—would suit him well.

  The guards heard a rumble first, like distant thunder. They paid it little mind, as the entire day and night had been cloudy.

  But the rumble continued, slowly growing closer. It was going on for too long, and it was too muted. It wasn’t thunder.

  One of the guards checked with their counterparts posted at the main door.

  “You hear that?”

  “What?”

  “The rumble?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. I was going to ask you.”

  “Probably protestors. They’ve been out all night, probably working on some damn fool stunt.”

  “Have we been issued a shoot-to-kill order yet?”

  “No.”

  “Damn.”

  The rumble got louder as a man turned the corner. He wore a cloth over his face and seemed to be shouting something, but the words came out too muffled for the guards to hear. He pushed a metal garbage can in front of him, the source of the rumble.

  “Tell me he’s not coming toward us.”

  “He’s coming toward us.”

  The guards emerged from their kiosk, watching the protestor’s approach. They kept their weapons holstered, but their hands hovered, ready to grab.

  As he approached, the man’s shouts grew clearer. “Garbage! Garbage! Garbage!”

  The guards exchanged glances.

  The man approached until he was within three meters of the guards. “Garbage!”

  “All right, sir, that’s far enough.”

  “Garbage! Garbage! That’s all this government is! Garbage!”

  “I think your protest is probably over, sir.”

  The man’s eyes blazed above the cloth covering the lower half of his face. “Over? It’s just beginning! You’re garbage! You’re all garbage!”

  “Yes, sir. Fine. Now move along.”

  “Ha! You’d like that, wouldn’t you! No, I’m going to tell you what you are! You’re garbage!”

  “Sir, there are curfew laws . . .”

  “Curfew? I’ll show you what I think of your curfew! Garbage!” He gave his can a shove. It rolled down the slight hill toward the guards, gaining speed. They easily dodged it, watching it as it picked up speed, heading toward a crowd of identical cans scattered among giant Dumpsters.

  “Garbage! Ha!”

  The guards turned back to the protestor. “Sir, you just assaulted government security officers. We could place you under arrest.”

  “You’re garbage!” the man shouted, and the trash can ran into the others like a bowling ball, sending up a tremendous clatter. The protestor launched into a drunken dance.

  The noise faded, and the guards approached the protestor. “All right, sir, that’s it. We’ll find a good place for you to dry out.” They reached for the protestor’s arms.

  With surprisingly good reflexes, he yanked them away. “Don’t touch me! You filth!” He jumped backward and made a gesture frequently seen in Geneva highway traffic jams.

  The guards exchanged glances and then lunged forward. But the protestor was too quick, turning nimbly and running ahead of them down the street.

  He kept glancing at his pursuers, checking to see if they were gaining. They weren’t.

  After a block of pursuit, the guards slowed. They couldn’t wander any farther out.

  “Go home!” one of them shouted at the fleeing figure.

  They trudged back to their position in their small kiosk. They arrived too late to see an extremely dizzy man emerge from the rolled garbage can, press his hand against a biometric lock, and enter the Hall of Government.

  Jonah had to resist the urge to walk like a sneak thief, hunched over with wide strides. Nothing would draw the attention of the machines and guards monitoring the cameras faster than suspicious behavior. He had to walk like he was supposed to be there, which was difficult, considering his recent tumble in a metal can. Walking in a straight line was hard enough.

  The hallways buzzed with power, some of it used for the all-too-dim lighting that would make it easy for Jonah to accidentally stumble into a guard on patrol. Most of the electricity supplied the wide array of alarms set throughout the building, guarding offices, computers and whatever other valuables Senators felt like keeping here. The low-level noise was a constant reminder to walk carefully.

  Jonah felt a tug of longing as he walked by an elevator bank. He had to get to the twenty-third floor, and the elevators would be the best mode of transportation. But standing still for fifteen full seconds in the range of security cameras would not be a wise move. The stairwells had cameras, too, but he could move by them quickly. The only trick there was avoiding the question of why someone was walking up twenty-two flights of stairs at four in the morning.

  He found a stairwell, walked up two flights, and exited. Strolling to the other side of the building, he found more stairs and went up another two flights.

  Altogether, the building had ten stairwells. Jonah spent ten minutes wandering from one to another, moving up in small chunks of flights. Hopefully, if anyone noticed him on one set of stairs, they didn’t see him on the other. Hopefully there were entirely different sets of guards watching each stairwell, or each floor. Hopefully.

  Finally, he reached floor twenty-three. The carpeting here was steel gray, the walls brown squares on a tan background, just like every other floor. There was a single guard stationed at the north end, another at the south. Jonah shouldn’t get close enough for either to see him.

  He found the door he was looking for—Suite 2312, the offices of Senator Lina Derius. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small metal cylinder. Just below the sign announcing the Senator’s name was an almost invisible pinhole, and behind that hole was a microphone. Jonah held the cylinder in front of the hole an
d pressed a button on top. The cylinder played a recording that had been transmitted by Horn, a single word spoken by Henrik Morten.

  “Rebirth.”

  A computer on the other side of the microphone analyzed the voiceprint and found it belonged to an authorized individual. The door’s lock clicked, and Jonah pushed it open, jumped through, and closed it behind him.

  He exhaled. He had some degree of safety now, since common areas were monitored much more closely than the individual offices. Office security was left up to each individual Senator’s alarm system of preference.

  He walked past the receptionist’s desk. He needed a computer with access to everything Lina Derius knew, and there was only one computer that fit that category. He walked directly to her office. A keycode supplied by Morten got him in.

  He retrieved another item from a large side pocket, a small power generator. He plugged Senator Derius’ equipment into it, so that no one monitoring power usage would see anything unusual.

  He activated the computer and put Morten’s passwords to work. Not surprisingly, there were a few areas, such as the Senator’s personal journal, that Morten’s codes could not crack. Still, he had access to a majority of the data kept by the Senator. It would be enough.

  He knew vaguely what he wanted, but couldn’t know exactly what form it would be in, or where it would be kept, and he didn’t have the luxury of conducting a global search through the massive files the Senator kept on her drive, or transferring them all to his own files. He had to operate on instinct. It was like walking through the woods, guessing which trees were innocent and which protected an enemy trooper with a flamethrower.

  The clock ticked. By four-thirty, Jonah had transferred exactly one file that proved little more than Senator Derius’ political leanings. At five, someone arrived to empty the trash. Jonah turned off the computer screen, grabbed his power supply, hid under the desk, and watched the feet of the custodian while imagining the headlines he’d see the next day if the custodian heard him breathe.