Colonyside

by Michael Mammay

  “So what’s your move now?”

  “There are too many things going on here that don’t add up. I’m going to shake up EPV and see what falls out and pressure Caliber to see why they’re hiding things.”

  “Watch yourself,” said Oxendine. “Rumor is that someone’s trying to kill you.”

  I held it in for a couple seconds before I burst out laughing. “Yeah. Fuckers.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  “If anything happens to me, avenge me.”

  “Really?”

  “No, not really. I just always wanted to say that.”

  It was her turn to laugh. “Just watch yourself.”

  Despite what I told Oxendine, I headed first to the governor’s office to ask about the prisoner transfer. He wasn’t available when I arrived—at least that’s what they told me. I didn’t believe it, but I couldn’t do anything about it either. Instead, after making me wait longer than necessary, a staffer ushered me into an office to meet with Cora Davidson. The interior pissed me off, boasting a polished wood floor, small conference table, original art on the walls, and a desk so big that if Davidson were a man, I’d have accused her of overcompensating for having a small penis. As it stood, I still suspected she was overcompensating for something.

  “Colonel Butler. I’m glad to see you.” Her face said she wasn’t, but she gestured to a chair and I took it.

  “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

  “They told me you wanted to see the governor.” She smiled, a thin, bitter thing, like she’d eaten a bite of bad food at a fancy dinner and had to pretend she liked it.

  I could have played along and kept things fake and polite, but that would be playing her game. Instead I decided to change the rules. “I wanted to ask him why he lied to us about the prisoner, Eric Bergman, and shipped him off planet in order to keep him from military questioning.”

  She stopped smiling. I don’t think she expected me to be so direct, but I find that sometimes that’s the best time to be direct. It puts people off balance. “I don’t think lied is the term I’d use.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. But I would, and I will in my next report to the person who assigned me the job. The president. Maybe you’ve heard of her. You think maybe the governor will see me after that?”

  Davidson’s lips thinned even more as she sucked at her teeth. She took several seconds to respond, probably deciding on a course. She didn’t crack. I’ll give her that. “The governor had nothing to do with the decision. The change in jurisdiction for Mr. Bergman was ordered by a judge on Talca.”

  I assumed that was bullshit, but I didn’t say so. She had more information than I did. “How did a judge on Talca even see this case?”

  “I have no idea. I assume that attorneys for Mr. Bergman brought it to court.” Her smile came back, just teasing the corner of her mouth.

  “Attorneys. A colonyside dining-facility worker has attorneys on Talca.”

  “I doubt he hired them himself,” said Davidson, treating my sarcastic response as a legit question. “He works for EPV. Perhaps they hired them.”

  I wanted to say bullshit to that too, but I paused and thought about it. It could be true. I hated to admit that. It was easier to blame the politicians. But if Bergman really was working on behalf of EPV, it would be in their best interest to get him off the planet before he could talk and compromise the rest of their network. The governor should have at least given me—or Oxendine—a heads-up, but we both knew that, and I wasn’t going to give Davidson the satisfaction of me saying it. Besides, I wasn’t sure I bought Davidson’s excuse. The speed with which they moved still seemed suspicious. “Who were the attorneys?”

  “I’ll find out and send it to you. Anything else I can help you with?” asked Davidson. Her tone had changed now that she had me on my back foot.

  I wanted to rub the smug look off her face, but I know when it’s time to retreat. “Just one last thing. I need to know what Bergman said—please forward me a copy of the interrogation report.”

  “Absolutely,” she said. She’d won. She could afford to be gracious. “But I can tell you what it says now. Bergman claims he didn’t do it. He was at the demonstration, and after that he left. He claims he’s never touched or even seen a bomb in his life. If you wanted to know that, all you had to do was ask.”

  I ignored the shot at the end, because what she said was interesting. “The interrogators believed him?”

  “I’ll forward you the report.”

  “Right.” I stood and headed for the door. “Thanks.”

  Ganos had shoved all the furniture in her modest-sized room to one side and set up a long table along the other side with a bunch of equipment and four monitors. Despite the transformation, the room was spotless and smelled of bleach. Ganos wore pajama bottoms and a gray sweatshirt.

  “You brought the whole setup,” I said.

  “Never leave home without it.”

  “What do you have for me?” I asked.

  “First off, your bomber—Bergman—has got no record. Not even a parking ticket. He failed out of university, got disowned by his parents, and worked a series of menial jobs, never staying in one too long. He’s an active member of EPV but isn’t on any of the radical threads. He’s kind of a normal guy who overshares on social media. His life is an open book.”

  “Interesting. Davidson told me he said he didn’t do it.” Ganos’s information didn’t corroborate it, but it did fit with the same profile.

  “Maybe he didn’t,” said Ganos. “But I’m not sure I’d take Davidson’s word for anything.”

  “You found something on her?”

  “Take one guess at what her job was before she started working for the governor.”

  “What?”

  “Mining company executive.”

  I wish I could say that surprised me. At least it clarified which side she supported. “That’s really useful. Was it for Caliber?”

  “Not directly. How is something like this legal?” asked Ganos.

  “I don’t know. It happens quite a bit though. Any idea how she got the job? Maybe she’s got some unique qualifications?”

  “Political appointee,” said Ganos.

  “Okay, maybe not.”

  “It’s funny. People say what I do is wrong, that I have access I shouldn’t, but with this kind of thing, nobody bats an eye. I’m in the wrong line of work. I should have gone into politics.”

  “But you’re really good at what you do,” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Ganos blushed a little, which I didn’t think was possible. I’d have to remember to tell her more often how much I appreciated her.

  “Seriously, you’re the best.”

  “Of course I am.”

  It took a lot of cajoling to get Dante Farric to agree to a meeting. I had no leverage over him and in our initial call, he told me that I had nothing to offer him. He had a point, but I didn’t tell him that. Armed with Ganos’s information, I called him again and offered him a piece of the truth: Maybe Bergman didn’t do it.

  Farric told me I was full of shit, but even over the comm I could sense the doubt in his voice. It still took me another fifteen minutes to talk him into meeting, and then he would only agree to meet me in a public place. I’m not sure why he insisted on that, but I agreed in a hurry. I’d have preferred to bring him to my apartment for privacy, but a public place seemed like the next best option.

  We settled on a restaurant with outdoor seating—outdoor being somewhat of a misnomer inside of the dome. Mac hated the idea because the place always drew a crowd. The few restaurants that did exist on Eccasis did good business. Probably because they gave a sense of normalcy—a feeling like you weren’t on a colony in the middle of nowhere. But that crowd gave me comfort. The attack on my cart seemed designed to specifically avoid collateral damage, so staying around people added some potential safety. Mac grumbled but made himself scarce, probably somewhere trying to watch everyone at once.
At least no protesters showed up.

  I tried to act normal as I talked to the waitress, despite Farric glaring at me from the other side of our small wooden table. They didn’t have real whiskey, so I ordered a beer, even though it was a couple hours before dinner. I’m pretty sure the five-p.m. rule doesn’t count colonyside. Besides, I thought that my having a drink might put Farric at ease.

  The waitress turned to Farric, smiling. “For you, sir?”

  “Water.” He barked the word. So much for putting him at ease. I consoled myself with the thought that the waitress would probably spit in his drink. When she left, he turned his disdain on me. “Let’s get to the point. What’s going on with Bergman?”

  “Slow down, now,” I said. “It’s not like I’ve got a signed affidavit that I can whip out right here in the restaurant.”

  “You don’t have anything, do you?”

  I kept my face neutral as I continued to stretch the truth. “Let’s just say that I’m no longer convinced that he was the bomber.”

  His face lit up at that. As mad as he was at me, he wanted to believe. “My source says they have his fingerprint on a bomb fragment.”

  I jerked back in my chair slightly. He shouldn’t have had that information, and it caught me off guard. I guess it shouldn’t have, given all the leaks and interbreeding of organizations. Thankfully, the waitress came back with our drinks, which gave me time to recover. I didn’t confirm his source, just in case he threw it out there without knowing for sure. “Look, I just have some questions.”

  “We’ve all got questions.”

  “Here’s what I can tell you,” I said. “Bergman got moved off planet because some high-priced lawyers back on Talca got to a judge.”

  Farric leaned in. “Really? You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Any idea where a dining-facility worker gets that kind of representation? More specifically, did your organization provide them?”

  He snorted. “Organization. You’re giving us a little too much credit.”

  “How so?” He’d made a similar remark at the governor’s reception, and this time I wanted to follow up on it.

  “To answer your question, no, there’s no way that EPV provided lawyers for a criminal case. When we spend money for lawyers, it’s environmental law.”

  “So . . . who provided them?” I asked.

  He thought about it. “When I say we’re not an organization . . . we’re more like a loose conglomeration of entities that have goals that might be somewhat aligned. But not all the time.”

  In other words, EPV existed as a nonhomogeneous entity. I often had that blind spot in my thinking. I needed to work on that. For now, I wanted to keep him talking. “So . . . you’re not in charge.”

  “Right. No. Sometimes.” He sighed again. “I’m in charge here on Eccasis, except when I’m not. It’s complicated.”

  “It would help me a lot if I understood.” I left unsaid that if I understood, I could find the cracks and pull it apart.

  He sipped his water. “I don’t think this is really a secret. For the most part, we don’t pay people. I get a check, and so do a few others. But mostly, the V in our name is accurate. There are a lot of volunteers. We help them get jobs in the colony.”

  “Sure.” I took a pull from my beer. As long as he kept talking, I wouldn’t interrupt.

  “Not everyone who claims association with EPV has the same agenda.” He paused, looking at me like he thought I’d understand something meaningful from that.

  “I think I understand.” I did. But I also wanted him to elucidate.

  “I, and the leadership, believe in non-violent means. The protest at the governor’s mansion? That was us . . . not me, but people I know and trust. We’re not above confrontation. We’ll block access to a destructive work site; we’ll chain ourselves to trees . . . we’ll do whatever it takes. But we won’t kill someone. At most, we might try to scare someone. Even that’s rare though.”

  “How rare? And what do you mean by scare someone?”

  He covered his delay with another sip of water. He was horrible at this. “Scare is probably a bad word. Intimidate is more accurate. If you’re worried about us and what we might do and that makes you take more care with the ecology of the planet, I’m okay with that.”

  “Bombs are intimidating.”

  “They are. And that’s the problem. There are elements that associate themselves with us—might even call themselves by our name—that see violence as a legitimate tool.”

  I stared him down for a couple seconds. “But not Bergman.”

  “Nothing I know about the guy suggests that he’d be involved with this.”

  “But you know who would,” I said.

  Farric paused with his glass halfway to his face. I had him. “I told you, we don’t encourage that kind of thing.”

  “So you don’t encourage it, but you don’t discourage it either.”

  His face reddened. “We do discourage it, when we can. But it’s not like we have board meetings. We don’t have a mailing list. I don’t even know Eric Bergman. I had to look him up just to find out what he looked like. So what can I do? I can make a statement, go on the news to condemn the attack. But does anyone even believe that?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  “Exactly. You’d listen to my public statement denying involvement while tacitly thinking that I’m just saying it to save face.”

  I was in a bit of a bind. Bergman said he didn’t do it, but I couldn’t prove that, so I couldn’t get him off the hook. But maybe Farric could. He seemed like he truly cared, and I could exploit that. “You want to help Bergman? Give me some names.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I don’t have names. We don’t deal with the radicals. We don’t even acknowledge them publicly . . . for obvious reasons.”

  “Surely you have some idea. Even if you don’t have contact directly, you’ve got to have ideas. This asshole tried to kill me, and I want to nail them.”

  Farric had inched forward on his seat. I almost had him. Just one more little push.

  “And if you cooperate, I’ll do my best to make sure that it’s not associated with EPV.” I took a pull of my beer, letting that statement hang out there as I observed his reaction. His face lit up a bit, but he didn’t speak for a moment. I let him have the time. I’d put out the bait, and I had to be patient while he took it.

  “I can probably get you a name. I don’t have it now, but some of my legit associates probably have some ideas of someone who might involve himself—or herself—on the radical side of things.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “How long until I can expect to hear from you?”

  “Give me a day or two.”

  “Sounds good.” I didn’t know what I’d do with the name once I got it or how I’d convince anyone else that we had another suspect. I’d deal with that once I got the information.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was feeling confident after what I thought was a success with Farric, so I decided to press my luck and head over to Caliber, hoping to catch some people still there, even though we were approaching the end of the workday. Mac materialized out of nowhere and we moved out.

  Since I hadn’t called ahead, there was no delegation of lawyers to meet me, so I walked up to what was either a receptionist or a guard ensconced behind a black polymer standing desk.

  She met my gaze. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Ms. Stroud.”

  The red-headed woman looked at her screen, and the way the light hit her face cast a green tint on her pale skin. “You don’t have an appointment.”

  “I don’t.” We stared at each other for a few seconds, me trying to project confidence, she trying to get me to go away without explicitly telling me to.

  She broke eye contact first, noticing Mac. “He can’t be in here with that.”

  I didn’t have to look to see what she meant. Mac had his assault rifle. “He’s my protection.”

  “I do
n’t care. He can be in here, but the weapon stays outside.”

  “Is there somewhere he can sign it in?”

  “No,” she said. “And even if there was, you don’t have an appointment.”

  “Humor me. Call up and see if Stroud’s available.”

  She gave me a “you’re an asshole” look for several seconds. I didn’t back down. I’m used to it. I am an asshole.

  Finally, she asked, “Name?”

  “Butler. Carl Butler.”

  “You can have a seat over there, Mr. Butler.” She gestured to a set of three wooden chairs along the far wall of the small, low-ceilinged reception area. She turned to Mac. “You can get out. You’ve got five seconds until I call base security.”

  Mac looked to me and I nodded. He backed toward the door. “I’ll be waiting right outside, sir.”

  “Roger.” I admired the receptionist’s guts. Not everybody could face down a man with a gun and come out on top.

  She waited until Mac closed the door before she made the call. She spoke too softly for me to make out what she said. And I tried. I wouldn’t have put it past her to make a fake call to get rid of me. She stopped speaking but kept the device to her ear, looking intent, as if she might be getting instructions.

  “Mr. Butler,” she called me over once she put her phone down. “Someone will be down to get you in a moment.”

  “Thanks.” Great. The lawyers were coming.

  I am sure my surprise showed on my face a minute later when Stroud herself entered. She walked up to me and offered her hand, shaking with a powerful grip.

  “Mr. Butler. We meet again.”

  “Please, call me Carl.”

  “Carl. What can I do for you?”

  “Is there some place we can talk?” I noticed that she didn’t offer me her first name.

  She considered it. “Sure. You mind if we take the stairs? It’s only two floors up.”

  “No problem.” My robot foot wasn’t bothering me too much.

  We walked to her office in silence, passing a thin man at a desk whom I took for her assistant. She didn’t speak to him, and while his eyes followed us, he didn’t speak either. Her inner office was small for a boss, though large enough to hold a desk and a small conference table with six chairs around it. The furniture reflected the lights in its polish, and while none of it was ornate, it wasn’t cheap, either. If I had to describe the place in one word, it would be functional. I noted that, because I feel like an office can give a window into a personality, though there’s a chance I was reading too much into it.