Freenet

by Steve Stanton

  “Zen Valda of Star Clan?” the guard said as he offered an elbow.

  Zen steadied himself against the man, thankful for something solid as his stomach roiled in free flight. He swivelled quickly to catch a glimpse of Simara as she was led away through a small tunnel above. Who were these people, corporate hirelings?

  “Sir,” the man said, “can you please confirm your identity?”

  “I’m Zen of Star Clan,” he said and pointed after Simara. “I’m travelling with my wife.”

  “We’ll follow her this way,” the guard said as he propelled them both upward into the open tunnel. He seemed to move without effort, redirecting his momentum with simple kicks and pushes here and there, always in motion, never far from any surface, but rarely touching anything around him. Zen was glad for the guidance and clung to his elbow for navigation.

  “Simara Ying has been taken into custody,” the guard said. “We’re going to ask you a few questions under oath. Would you like to have a lawyer present?”

  “What?” Zen said, squinting and clenching his brows in confusion. “No, a lawyer won’t be necessary. I’ve done nothing wrong. What’s the big problem?”

  The Security officer pulled them into a bare vestibule and closed a portal below their feet. “She’s under arrest for the murder of her stepfather, Randy Ying.” The man studied Zen’s face with professional detachment. “She led us on a merry chase through the badlands of Bali, I must say.” Again the guard paused to study Zen’s reaction. Every nuance was going on record now, every expression of horror and amazement as Zen’s mind cartwheeled through possibilities.

  Zen pressed his fingers to his forehead as he struggled to process the terrible news. What in Kiva’s name? Murder? That was not a word to bandy about lightly. Could Simara have killed her stepfather in her struggle to escape sexual assault? She was certainly capable of violence with her wicked right fist, and he still had the black eye to prove it. She had admitted to fighting in self-defence. Had she kept the real truth hidden? Murder? Had Zen harboured a fugitive all this time and abetted a criminal act? Did he carry second-hand guilt? He gulped stale, oily air and turned to the Security officer. “I think a lawyer might be a good idea.”

  The guard bobbed his head once as though the obvious could be arranged with ease. “Wait here,” he said as he kicked off toward an open portal up above. “It might take a few minutes to summon a representative.”

  Zen examined his surroundings with care, checking for cameras or surveillance equipment. The grey vestibule was a claustrophobic section of hexagonal conduit less than a man’s height in diameter with a bench seat ringing the circumference at the midpoint and two access gates fore and aft. The upper doorway was not closed, but it might as well have been, for Zen had nowhere to hide from the constabulary on Trade Station and no escape from Transolar authority. He spent a few moments studying the circular bench seat, trying to decide which surface to rest upon. Both sides were covered with a spongy texture that might pass for austere padding. No landmarks on the walls indicated up or down, and Zen tried both directions with little comfort in the absence of gravity. He kept a hand on recessed grips in the wall at all times, fearful of flying free and flailing for purchase. Without a handhold, he could fall forever in this terrible place.

  He felt a vacuum of purpose that he remembered from two years ago—the day his father shocked the family with news of his impending death from cancer. Valda had delivered the verdict without emotion to his wife and only son in the caves of Keokapul, his eyes dark with bitter foreboding. His tests had come in, and the results were not good—an acute leukemia that would take his life in matter of days, his own lifeblood turned sour and poisonous within him. Zen remembered the woeful absence in his heart at the death of his father, the sense that Kiva had failed him and life was no longer worth the ponderous effort. Stifled by depression, he could not summon anger or denial, nor trouble himself with the stages of grief. He felt only emptiness, an all-encompassing disconsolation. First his father taken to the grave, and now his bride would be plucked from his grasp, his skyfall princess shipped off to a prison colony on a planet far away.

  An elderly man dove into the vestibule from above and quickly reoriented to match Zen’s chosen equilibrium. He floated downward with fingertip brushes along the wall, his thick grey hair marbled with dark streaks and his face craggy around lively eyes. He wore long pants of plain cellulose and the collared shirt of a corporate professional. “My name is Genoa Blackpoll,” he said in the lustrous baritone of a man accustomed to public speaking. “I knew your father and mourned his loss.”

  Zen ducked his chin and kept silent, feeling lost and alone like a vagabond child, wondering whom he could trust in this nightmare. His father had never mentioned a compatriot by that name.

  The man settled close and faced him on the bench opposite, barely a metre away. “I’ll be your public representative for a meeting with the prosecuting attorney and his empath in a few minutes.”

  “I have money,” Zen said as he held up his boarding passes, “and two prepaid tickets to Babylon.”

  Genoa Blackpoll took the tickets and pressed grim lips with a nod. “Don’t worry about the cost. My expenses will be reimbursed by corporate authority without prejudice to your case. I’ll have these tickets refunded to your account until current matters are cleared up. This private meeting is confidential, but your upcoming interview will be under oath and recorded as court evidence. An empath will be present, a woman with biogen augmentation, a technical specialist with expertise in reading nonverbal gestures—galvanic response, muscle tone, subconscious cues. The chance of successfully portraying any falsehood will be minimal. Do you understand?”

  Zen cringed at the belaboured officiousness of his tone. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Genoa smiled and nodded with dutiful patience as though addressing a student. “The evidence indicates that you were travelling with Simara Ying and purchased a booster ticket for her under an assumed name. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you also wish to claim that you are partnered in marriage with the woman?”

  Zen studied the man’s solemn face for a moment and wondered about a winding trail of consequence. “I owe her that much.”

  “You owe her? How long have you known her?”

  “Just a few days. She crashed in my quadrant.”

  Genoa frowned. “The evidence indicates that you helped her conceal a stolen shuttlecraft from an extensive search. You could be open to a charge of wilful collusion in harbouring a fugitive during a murder investigation. In legal parlance that is known as accessory after the fact, a very serious charge.”

  Zen grimaced with panic. “Did she really do it?”

  The public representative spread his hands and pressed thin lips below a stubbly hint of grey moustache. He had a skullrider scar on his right temple below a receding hairline. “That won’t be for me to decide. The cargo ship Legacy’s Hope, registered to Randy Ying and Vanessa Edwards, was found abandoned with the cameras destroyed and the airlock open. There were signs of a struggle and traces of his blood found in Simara Ying’s quarters.”

  Zen nodded. “They had a fight and Simara fled for her own safety. Her stepmother died a few months previous in a vacuum breach.”

  “Yes, that much has been entered into record.” Genoa raised an eyebrow in query and waited a few moments in silence. His eyes were black holes of night, his dilated pupils wide chasms. “If you have nothing else to add, we might as well get started.” He tapped a pad on his earlobe, and two people entered the tunnel from above and floated down headfirst toward them. They reoriented in concise space with practised elegance to sit opposite Zen as Genoa slid around the wall against his thigh.

  “I’m Detective Alil,” said a young man with shaggy hair and dark bangs. He laid a palm toward his female compatriot, a teenager with tawny skin and a bristle of black hair. “This is Nakistra Gulong, our registered empath.” The girl’s f
ace remained staid, her unwavering gaze intent, her mind a mystery of bioengineered enhancement. She carried no data pad or recording device, but Detective Alil continued without pause. “This preliminary interview is simply to gain information related to the homicide investigation in progress. Do you submit to oath, Zen Valda of Star Clan, planet Bali?” The man had an unusual offworld accent, his words only partially formed and hurried in expression.

  Zen shrugged. “I have nothing to hide.”

  The detective offered a reedy, businesslike smile. “Say ‘I do’ for the record, please.”

  “I do.”

  “Fine. Now, Zen, can you present any evidence of your formal relationship to Simara Ying?”

  Zen pouted for a moment and darted his eyes at the recording empath, wondering if she could read his mind with the magic of science in her brain. He felt exposed like a blind cavefish in a glass aquarium, surrounded by skullriders with a host of invisible witnesses talking about him behind his back, analyzing his every gulping breath. “Magistrate Loring of the community cave Keokapul has entered our partnership statement into record.”

  “And this is a relationship known as common proximity in your parlance, not the result of a civil ceremony, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You also have entered into a business partnership with Simara Ying to dispose of the debris from her shuttlecraft for financial gain, correct?”

  “She crashed in my quadrant and granted salvage rights. We used the proceeds to pay for boost tickets.”

  “Yes, very good. And what became of the flight recorder from the vessel?”

  Zen glanced at his representative. These people knew everything already. What hope did he have? “I dumped the black box in Old Joe’s hole in the deep trench along Zogan Ridge.”

  “And this was done to avoid detection?”

  Zen huffed a sigh. “We take the GPS beacons out of skyfalls to keep pirates from stealing our treasure.”

  “Was this action taken at the behest of Simara Ying?”

  “No, she was still unconscious. She almost died.”

  The detective glanced at his empath, but the biogen never wavered from her steady gaze. She was an automaton to duty, a robot with eyes to pierce the soul of man.

  “Do you believe that Simara killed Randy Ying?”

  “No,” Zen said hastily. “But if she did, he must have deserved it.”

  “Hearsay evidence,” Genoa Blackpoll interjected. “My client has no firsthand knowledge of any events prior to Simara Ying’s crash in the desert.”

  “Granted,” the detective said. “I think we’re done here. Move to adjourn?”

  Zen whirled to face his representative and spun off his perch into weightless space. “Where’s Simara? I need to see her.”

  Genoa Blackpoll reached to steady him as he careened into the empath opposite. “She’s being held in solitary confinement pending a court appearance on Cromeus. She’s a proven flight risk and is not allowed visitors.” He pulled Zen back to his seat.

  “Take me with her,” Zen said. “I’m guilty. I admit it.”

  “Strike from the record,” Genoa said to Detective Alil. “No charges have been laid against my client.”

  Zen turned to the empath. “But you know I’m guilty. Tell them.”

  Genoa tugged his arm. “Ms. Gulong does not allow herself the distraction of speech while she works.”

  “All omnidroids are intimately available on the V-net,” said Detective Alil. “You can communicate with Simara at any time.” He shook his head with finality. “The Crown does not require the presence of Zen Valda for court on Cromeus. Move to adjourn?”

  “Granted,” Genoa said with a tight grip on Zen’s arm to hold him steady. “End of session. My client is released into my care.”

  Zen felt a fresh wave of helplessness smother him like a dark blanket, sucking the last dregs of energy from his weary body.

  Detective Alil smiled at empath Gulong. “Closed. Thank you for your excellent work, Nakistra.” He turned back to Genoa and extended an arm. “A pleasure to meet you again, Governor Blackpoll.” After a quick handshake, he offered an elbow up to Zen in respect to Bali culture, but Zen felt too sick to move. His wife was gone, whisked away to jail on their honeymoon, their escape plans crumbled to confetti.

  Detective Alil sucked his lower lip with regret and dropped his elbow to follow Nakistra Gulong up and away through the upper portal. Genoa Blackpoll slid effortlessly around the bench to face Zen and made no move to leave.

  “I’ve got to go after her,” Zen said.

  Genoa nodded grimly. “Are you sure that’s what she wants?”

  Zen shook his head sadly. “No, I can’t be sure of anything.”

  “Your resources are limited,” Genoa said. “You could cash out your tickets for a shuttle drop to Bali and return a rich man. Or you could trade them for a ticket to Cromeus and risk your future on this trader girl.” The tone in his voice said that a trader girl was a base and untrustworthy creature. “You might never get back home. Either way, I will help you out of respect for your father. We served together for our constituents and culture, and Valda died before his time.”

  Zen scrutinized Governor Blackpoll with a critical eye. His beady eyes were framed with crinkles of age and experience, his forehead ridged into a permanent frown, the sure mark of political wisdom. He cellulose dress uniform had creased edges fresh from a fabricator. “Why would a fancy bureaucrat on Trade Station take time from his busy schedule for a meeting with a wandering peasant? Are you working for Transolar?”

  Genoa pursed his lips and nodded at Zen’s cynical insight. “I volunteered for the job because of my familiarity with your case, and I don’t mind billing the corporate bastards every fair chance I get.” He grinned as though he might gain credence from Zen for the common grounder sentiment. “My authority comes from Bali, and my ultimate duty lies with its citizens.”

  “And your advice to a wayward youth from the badlands?”

  Genoa’s face relaxed into the dour stare of a man hardened by years of toil in political trenches. “I knew your father,” he repeated. “You have a worthy heritage, and your mother, Luaz, must surely miss your presence. This trader girl …” He let the disdain in his voice linger. “… is beyond my understanding. An omnidroid is more machine than human, a multiplicity of virtual experience not to be trifled with. My advice is to go home and count your blessings.”

  Zen scowled. “And if I choose not to retreat like a cactus turtle with a bump on the nose? If I choose to protect the girl I love and chase her to the end of the universe?”

  Genoa chuckled and clasped his hands in his lap as his eyes crinkled again with animation. “Then your father would be proud of your blind courage at least, may the saints of Kiva sustain us all.”

  “You’ll help me contact Simara?”

  He grinned. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble, if you don’t mind trading privacy for freedom. Omnidroids are omnipresent. Plug up to the V-net and you’re away.” He tapped his earlobe with a finger. “But you’ll have to get wired to join with her. She lives in a different world.”

  Zen shivered at the thought of joining the skullriders in their digital nirvana. He remembered watching Simara’s body convulse in connection to the nexus. Is that what it would take to follow her? Did he owe her that sacrifice to keep his reckless promise of protection? “Will I need brain surgery?”

  Governor Blackpoll rubbed at his chin in deliberation. “Well, that would be optimal, and there are plenty of corporate sponsors who will fund the operation for market share. But, you know, an implant changes things, alters the brain chemistry, even if you don’t choose an augmentation. The quick alternative is a simple earbug and eyescreen. It’s non-invasive—just a cochlear implant and contact lens with an exterior wi-fi amp.” He turned his head and pointed at a tiny light blinking on his earring pad. “You’ll be able to hear Simara’s voice and see her face, but you won’t have any tactile or imagina
tive sense. You’ll get no feelie from her, no background of emotion.”

  “That’s okay. Let’s do it, just the minimum to get online.”

  Genoa nodded. “It’s probably for the best. A full-blown connection to an omnidroid stays with you forever.” He rolled his eyes up under closing lids to peer inside his skullrider forehead. A hint of a smile flirted at the corners of his mouth, and his lips moved in pre-formed speech similar to the lip twitches Simara had shown while working. He opened his eyes. “Your appointment is tomorrow. Get a good sleep. I’ve sent for a pill to make sure you’re well rested.”

  That was it? So quick! Life was a whirlwind up here. Meetings were fast and business almost instantaneous. “Where will I stay? Are there any vacant apartments on Trade Station?”

  “No, you’ll sleep right here.” Genoa floated upward and palmed a sensor pad that Zen had taken for decoration. A launch couch with sensor-studded armrests and comfy padding tipped down out of the wall on whirring hydraulics, as lights dimmed for evening repose. “You’ll have to buckle up in a room this big.”

  Zen tipped his head back at the strange notion. “Big?”

  “This is a double,” Genoa said with a sly smile. He tapped another sensor and an opaque hologram filled the area at bench height where Zen’s legs disappeared into a grey partition dividing the meeting space.

  “Whoa,” Zen said as he launched up out of the hologram and floated free. The acoustics of the room had altered to a quieter tone to deaden his exclamation. He windmilled for a moment in panic until he hit the wall, then lurched to latch thankfully against the Transolar launch couch. He pulled himself up and buckled in. So this was home for now.

  “Your appointment tomorrow is at A5:15 on Level 4, medical clinic #259, with Nurse Stavos.” He began tapping a keypad on the armrest. “I’ll program that into your couch for you.”