Penumbra

by Eric Brown

  Then she remembered the shoot-out. Klien had shot the security officers and left her for dead. He’d had no time to scar her.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that.’ She was aware of the face swimming into her view, gentle hands on hers, forcing her arms down by her sides. ‘Close your eyes and rest,’ the nurse said. ‘There, try to sleep.’

  When she awoke next it was to a searing pain in her chest, as if a burning arrow had lodged itself in her sternum. She screamed and opened her eyes and saw many green-smocked medics gathered around her bed, staring at her without expression above surgical masks. In that intense second of agony she wished that Klien had succeeded and killed her. Then the pain diminished, and she closed her eyes and drifted off into oblivion.

  She seemed to wake up frequently after that, for short periods between long stretches of sedation, and always the pain was a little less intense. Always she tried to remain awake a little longer, without success.

  She remembered fragments from these awakenings. Vishwanath sitting beside her, concern etched on his aquiline face, a hand on hers. He was saying something, asking her if she could recall anything, but when she tried to speak she found that the words would not come. The next time she opened her eyes she saw Naz standing next to the bed, a bunch of flowers in his hand. He reached out and took her fingers. ‘Truce?’ he asked, and this time she managed a few words: ‘Ah-cha, truce.’

  The next time she came to her senses, it seemed to her a proper awakening. It was morning, and she was in a different room, with sunlight spilling in through a window, illuminating her bed and so many beautiful, fragrant flowers. She was no longer attached to drips and tubes. She wondered if she were out of intensive care now, if she would live. She looked through the door of her room. An armed guard was stationed there. She closed her eyes, against her will, and slept.

  A voice came to her as if from a great distance. ‘Rana?’

  She tried to open her eyes, to focus. She recognised the voice. She smiled. It was her father’s voice, and she was five again, and he was playing with her on the lawn of the mansion . . .

  She opened her eyes.

  ‘Rana?’ Vishwanath said. He sat on a chair next to the bed, leaning forward and staring at her.

  She turned her head slightly, managed a smile.

  ‘I don’t want you to speak if it’s too difficult, Rana.’

  She tried to lick her dry lips. She was aware that she was thirsty. ‘I’m fine,’ she murmured. ‘Can . . . can I have water?’

  He jumped up to fetch a glass of water, held it to her lips. The sensation of the cold, clear liquid wetting her lips and flowing over her tongue was a delight.

  She dropped her head back to the pillow. The effort of drinking had exhausted her.

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive, Rana.’ He squeezed her hand.

  ‘How . . . how long have I been—’

  ‘Almost a month, Rana. You were in a coma for two weeks, and then in intensive care on a life support machine for a week. You don’t know how lucky you were. The laser missed your heart and spine by millimetres.’

  ‘A month . . .’ She marvelled to herself.

  ‘The killer got away, Rana. When the medics found you, they thought you were dead.’

  She tried to return the pressure on his fingers. ‘Did you . . . did you get him?’

  Vishwanath shook his head. ‘He killed three security officers and got away. But we have the description of a tall, grey-haired man leaving the apartment buildings.’

  Rana tried to sit up, but Vishwanath restrained her.

  ‘No . . . disguise. He was in disguise. He has black hair.’

  Vishwanath frowned. ‘Black hair?’

  She tried to raise her head from the pillow, but fell back, exhausted.

  ‘It was Klien,’ she managed eventually. ‘Ezekiel Klien.’

  Vishwanath stared at her. ‘Klien, the security chief at the port?’ His tone conveyed disbelief.

  ‘Klien . . . the crucifix killings. He did them all. I ... I interviewed him. He knew I was getting close, so ... so he came to kill me. He was in disguise.’

  She remembered their confrontation, and his demanding from her the softscreen. But what did that mean? Why did he want the screen? Where did that fit into the scheme of things?

  She was exhausted, too wrung out to say another word or even to remain awake. Her last sight was of Vishwanath staring down at her incredulously.

  When she came to her senses again, Vishwanath was sitting on one side of the bed, Commissioner Singh on the other. She assumed that minutes had elapsed, that Vishwanath must have called Singh. Then she realised that it was dark beyond the window. Hours had passed.

  She blinked from Singh to Vishwanath. ‘Two visitors now,’ she managed. ‘Must be getting better.’

  Vishwanath pulled his chair forward. ‘Rana, I want you to tell Commissioner Singh what you told me. About Ezekiel Klien.’

  She turned her head to regard the overweight Sikh. She was aware of the weight of his regard, his reluctance to be convinced.

  ‘Klien,’ she said, her every word an effort, ‘Klien is the crucifix killer. I ... I interviewed him. He knew I was on to him. Someone saw him kill Raja Khan, then walk to his house on Allahabad Marg. Only he was in the disguise of the silver-haired man. Same man who . . . who came to kill me. It was Klien.’ She paused, licked her lips. ‘He has a ... a capillary net. One of the prototypes.’

  The words dried up. It was all she could do to look from Vishwanath to Singh, try to assess their reaction.

  Vishwanath touched her hand. ‘We’re continuing our investigations, Rana. Rest, now. I’ll see you later.’

  The two men left the room. She watched them in the corridor, talking animatedly in low tones.

  She closed her eyes and slept.

  Soon her cycle of sleeping and waking regulated itself. She slept during the hours of darkness and woke in the morning. The last of the tubes, those inserted directly into her stomach, feeding her for the past month, were removed and she was allowed to eat small meals. Her first breakfast of fried egg, vegetable cutlet and sweet chai was the finest she had ever tasted.

  She was allowed out of bed, but only as far as the chair facing the window. The short walk of half a dozen steps exhausted her, but at least there was no pain.

  She was examined regularly by a doctor, and once her surgeon introduced himself. ‘The laser went straight through your chest,’ he said with matter-of-fact relish. ‘A millimetre either way and you’d be dead. As it was, it just broke a few bones and nicked your right lung.’ He reached out and rubbed the back of her hand. ‘Touch you for good luck, Rana. We’ll have you out of here in a week.’

  She looked forward to Vishwanath’s next visit. She did not want his praise so much as his acknowledgement that her investigations had borne fruit, that her work had led to Klien’s arrest. Then, no doubt, would come his censure for her pursuing interviews without notifying him of her intentions.

  The next time Vishwanath visited, Commissioner Singh was with him again. She was sitting up in bed, leafing through a holodrama magazine, when the two men entered the room. Vishwanath closed the door behind him. In silence they took their seats on either side of the bed.

  She smiled from Vishwanath to Singh, but they did not smile back.

  ‘Lieutenant Rao,’ Singh said, ‘the allegation you made against Ezekiel Klien is a very serious matter.’ He watched her with an unflinching gaze.

  ‘I know that,’ she said. Something turned sickeningly in her stomach. ‘Of course it’s a serious matter. So is trying to shoot someone dead.’

  Singh glanced at Vishwanath and sighed. ‘The fact is that we’ve investigated your claims, Lieutenant, and we cannot find a shred of evidence to justify taking any action against Klien in regard of the so-called crucifix killings or your attempted murder.’

  She looked from Singh to Vishwanath, wanting to laugh out loud and at the same time wanting to cry with rage at the injustice. Vishwanath
was regarding her with the gaze of a disappointed father.

  She shook her head. ‘I know who shot me,’ she whispered. ‘It was Ezekiel Klien.’

  ‘Lieutenant Rao,’ Singh began with manufactured patience. ‘We have questioned Klien as to what he was doing at the time of the killings over the past ten years. He has an alibi to account for his whereabouts on every single occasion.’

  ‘What about the killing of Raja Khan?’

  Singh glanced at Vishwanath, who said, ‘Rana, we have three witnesses who will testify under oath that they saw him at the spaceport that night.’

  ‘And the morning he tried to kill me? I suppose he’s paid liars to testify for him then?’

  Singh said, ‘Lieutenant, I’ve had some of my best men working on your claims. I’m sorry, but no evidence whatsoever was discovered to corroborate what you said.’

  She fought to keep her voice calm. ‘Are you calling me a liar, sir? I know who tried to kill me!’

  Vishwanath said patiently, ‘Rana, Klien was on duty in his office on the morning you were shot. We have witnesses who saw him.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. Please believe me, I know who I was talking to. I know it was him. He introduced himself!’

  Singh shook his head. ‘I can only assume that you were mistaken, Lieutenant. The alternative, that you are deliberately lying, is too offensive to contemplate. Ezekiel Klien happens to be an acquaintance of mine of long standing. Your bizarre claims have caused me severe embarrassment.’

  He nodded at Vishwanath, who touched Rana’s hand, almost apologetically, before rising and opening the door for his superior.

  Rana lay back and stared at the ceiling, tears of rage and betrayal tracking down her cheeks. She had considered telling him that Klien had demanded to know the whereabouts of her softscreen, but they were determined to disbelieve her anyway. What difference would it make to their assessment of the case if she told them?

  By keeping the knowledge to herself, she had her first lead in her case against Klien. He wanted her softscreen, and she had it; therefore she was in a position of power.

  Over the period of the next two weeks she made a steady recovery, and just six weeks after the shooting she walked from the hospital. For reasons of security she was relocated to a police apartment in the city centre, a short walk from police headquarters, and a twenty-four-hour armed guard was posted on her door.

  Rana was told by Vishwanath to take a holiday and not to return to work for a month. She decided to stay in the city. She visited Vandita and the other kids, but said nothing about the shooting. ‘But you haven’t visited us for so long!’ they complained. She smiled and made excuses, told them stories of car chases and shoot-outs. She wanted to hold them all, as night drew in, as if to protect them from the city and all the evil out there. The thought of Klien and his crimes filled her with a black depression. She considered taking a weapon herself and shooting him dead. The thought, if nothing else, was a catharsis.

  After just one week of her month’s leave, she contacted Vishwanath and begged to be allowed back to work. She told him she was fit and healthy and could work at her com-screen as well as the next officer. Vishwanath relented, allowed her to start work, but only at her com-screen; on no account was she to go out on a case. She wondered if this stricture was in view of her health, or on the orders of Commissioner Singh.

  Varma gave her a great hug on her first day back, and a card from Naz stood on her desk among the others; it asked if she was free for a meal that evening. Smiling, she caught his eye across the room, tore the card in two and dropped it into the litter bin. It was back to business as usual on the eighth floor.

  Rana was taken off the crucifix killings and given the files of other cases to analyse. Occasionally her curiosity got the better of her and she accessed the files on the crucifix case. She read through other officers’ reports concerning Klien and his alibis, and sure enough on the date of every killing his whereabouts were accounted for by trustworthy witnesses. But the very fact that he had an alibi for every murder struck Rana as suspicious. He had friends who were willing to lie for him, or people whom he had bribed. She thought of Commissioner

  Singh, who actually knew Klien, and she knew that the task of proving Klien guilty would be almost impossible.

  One morning, as she was going through the files of the case yet again, it came to her that Commissioner Singh might actually be aware that Klien was the crucifix killer, that Singh was in fact protecting his friend. It made sense. Klien was, after all, ridding the city of criminal elements, saving Singh the work of investigating these criminals himself. She wondered if there was any shred of truth in her suspicion, or if she was merely taking out her resentment on Singh because he had refused to believe her. But, she asked herself, how else had Klien managed to produce so many alibis, convince so many investigating officers of his innocence?

  The thought plunged Rana into depression.

  Then, a few days later, something happened which put all thought of Singh’s possible corruption from her mind.

  Before she began work one morning, she stopped by the second floor and found the security sergeant in his office. He was apologetic. ‘I still have your softscreen in my desk, Lieutenant. Unfortunately I’ve had no time to examine it.’

  ‘Oh ... I was hoping you could tell me something about the homing device, Sergeant. I want to know if the screen, or the device, is valuable or special in some way. Is there any reason that anyone might . . .’ She was about to say ‘kill’ for it, but checked herself. ‘That anyone might wish to steal it?’

  ‘Ah-cha. I’ll have a look at the first opportunity, Lieutenant. I’ll be in touch.’

  That day on the eighth floor, Rana worked halfheartedly on the cases given to her by Vishwanath, and hated every minute of it. She was depressed by the thought of Klien’s freedom, mocking her. She wondered how many other criminals were walking the streets thanks to the corruption of those in power.

  She entertained the fantasy of running away, of dropping the persona of Rana Rao, police officer, forgetting Klien and the terrible injustice of his liberty and starting a new life somewhere. But where, she asked herself? She knew only about life in Calcutta. She had run away once, but it had seemed so easy then - there had been the whole city to run to. Her gaze strayed unbidden to the travel article on her com-screen, advertising life on the colony worlds.

  Someone approached her desk, startling her - the sergeant from security.

  ‘Lieutenant Rao,’ he said. ‘There’s been a development regarding the softscreen.’

  She looked at him. ‘There has?’

  ‘A gentleman has come to my office in search of the screen,’ he said. ‘He is a Westerner, I think perhaps American.’

  Rana felt her mouth go dry. Klien, she thought. But how had he traced the screen to security?

  ‘Describe him.’

  The sergeant blinked. ‘He is tall. Perhaps thirty-five. Long-haired, down to here’ - he touched his shoulder - ’and he is wearing the flight-suit of a space pilot.’

  It didn’t sound like Klien, unless he had disguised himself again.

  Apprehensive, Rana told the sergeant that she would be down in five minutes. She closed the file she was working on, then made sure her holster was open and took the elevator down to the second floor.

  Cautiously, she paused at the door and looked in. She released a relieved sigh. The man was sitting nervously in his chair, hunched forward. His flight-suit was scuffed, his long dark hair lank and unwashed.

  Rana gestured to the sergeant, who joined her at the door. ‘If you’d allow me a few minutes alone with him . . .’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘Ah-cha. I’ll be next door if you need anything.’

  She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The American swivelled quickly in his seat, regarded her with dark eyes that seemed at once suspicious and afraid.

  She rounded the desk and sat down. ‘I am Lieutenant Rao,’ she said. />
  ‘Bennett,’ he said. ‘Josh Bennett.’

  His face was unshaven and sallow, and there was a tiredness and grubbiness about the man that made her wonder what he had been through to get here. Also, there was a gentleness about his manner. He was a big man whose movements were slow and considered, as if conscious of forever trying to prevent himself from clumsiness.