by Steve Rzasa
Jesse swore.
The girl turned and fired in their direction. Fred yelped and ducked in an awkward semi-roll as a lamppost shattered above his head. People screamed and panicked. They almost stampeded Jesse in their fear. He aimed his gun to return fire but a portly businessman collided with him. He lost his aim.
“Someone’s shooting!” the man yelled.
Jesse didn’t have time for this. He punched the man squarely across the jaw. That cleared his line of sight. He fired.
Two of his shots went wide. One grazed the girl’s shoulder. She stumbled and Jesse saw fear flicker across her face. Jesse dropped into a half-crouch a few meters away. “Drop the gun! Do it now!”
The girl leaned against the railing, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her blue eyes glared back at him. Instead of dropping the gun, she held it on Jesse and reached her other arm across the railing.
“Don’t move!”
She smirked. He could tell she knew—just as well as he did—that if she tried to pull the trigger, Jesse would shoot her, and if she jumped, Jesse could not grab her fast enough. She was unlikely to oblige him by not shooting him if he tried to edge closer.
Any day, Fred. Jesse tightened his grip on his pistol. Screams echoed all around. Sirens rang. “Put down the weapon.”
The woman stared back grimly. She sighted Jesse down the barrel of her own gun. Her finger twitched on the trigger.
A burst of blue-white energy rippled through the air like a heat wave. It struck her across the left shoulder and upper torso. The scrambler burst interfered with the frequency of her body’s voluntary nervous system operations. Her lungs drew breath and her heart pumped blood, but she slumped limply to the walkway. Jesse exhaled. He holstered his gun.
Fred moved slowly in. He kept the scrambler aimed. “You okay, sir?”
“I am. Nice shooting.”
Fred grinned.
There were only two bright lights in the interrogation room of the local Camese police station. They served to irritate Jesse and highlight the peeling pale green paint on the walls. Both shone directly at the young woman’s face as she sat stiffly behind the mesh table at the center of the room. Jesse noted with grudging admiration that she made no attempt to shield her eyes. The expression on her pale and angular face was almost haughty. She had tied her long, raven hair into a ponytail.
“You have many identities for one girl.” Jesse paced the length of the room. He’d left his delver sitting at a vacant spot on the table. It flashed holographic images and text in the air. The faces and words changed every five seconds. All the faces bore significant similarities to the young woman. “Five names, none of which have the proper Realm documentation. Which one is your real name?”
“You can call me Phoebe.”
Her tone was stoic. Jesse rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. Delver screens bothered his eyes when he read them for too long. There were times he wished printed products had not been banned by the royal family’s ancestors.
“Right. How about the three grey delvers in your public locker—possession of those earns you ten years apiece. Did Alfonso give you those to help pass on the texts?”
The girl only smiled at him.
“Listen, I have a less than pleasant colleague on his way to take over this investigation,” Jesse snapped. Such a comment usually gave the impression that his patience was slipping. This time it wasn’t an act. “Work with me and he won’t have to beat the truth out of you. Trust me, he’ll enjoy your pain.”
“I’m not afraid of him, or you, or anyone else,” the girl said firmly.
“You should be. He’s vicious.”
“And you are an enemy of God.”
“You have no idea who I am. My concern is law and order.”
“Corrupt and tyrannical law.”
“And what are you?” Jesse didn’t like the direction of the conversation. Who was doing the interrogating, anyway? “A criminal.”
“A warrior for God.” Her chin lifted with obvious pride. “I’m saving His Word from annihilation.”
“By trying to kill people?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. A tic betrayed her restrained smile. “So he survived.”
“Yes, you managed not to bleed Alfonso to death. He’s been very helpful.” That was a necessary lie—Alfonso was in an induced coma and not expected to awaken until nanites repaired his aorta. Her well-aimed shot had nearly shredded it.
The girl sighed. “He always was weak.”
“Unlike you?”
She glanced aside.
“You were his lackey?” Jesse prodded. This was the right line. He could tell. “His data-pusher? His secretary?”
“No!” The girl fixed him with a fierce stare.
Jesse’s eyes narrowed. Aced. “You were his handler. Alfonso was a front, a false file. You were the one dealing directly with Lydia. You shot Alfonso so he couldn’t spill.”
“I shot him because he was incompetent and his incompetence endangered us!”
“Enough!” Time for the big show. Jesse strode to his chair and kicked it aside. It banged against the wall. “You tell me how you’re connected. Comm frequency, data encryption, the whole deal! Do it now, or I’ll send you to meet your God right away!”
Jesse was less than a meter from her. She leaned toward him and made a peculiar face. Before he could comment or question, she spat full force. Saliva dripped off his badge.
Jesse kept his eyes locked on her as he wiped the badge off with his sleeve. He was torn between his desire gain her knowledge of Lydia and the urge to safeguard his own skin. Telling her the truth would be a mistake. “If you only knew—”
“Knew what?”
Jesse waved a hand. He wasn’t getting anywhere with this. There was an alternative. God knew, he despised it. But it had to be done. He had to find this Lydia. “I’m through with you. Tell Nikolaas I said hello.”
Within three hours, the strong-willed girl had been reduced to a screaming, sobbing mess.
Twenty minutes later, she was catatonic.
Jesse shivered as two Kesek guards eased a hovering stretcher out of the interrogation room. The woman’s face was even paler. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling. Bruises marred her face and arms. A latticework of silver and ivory clung to her forehead. Shimmering lights traced routes along one edge. Jesse had never resorted to using a sifter to dig for information from a suspect. He’d never wanted to—his methods usually sufficed.
Beside him, Fred looked nauseated. “Sir, did we have to let them do it this way?” he whispered.
“I had no choice, Fred. Our detective superintendent thought we were taking too long.” Jesse’s stomach tightened. “So he called in the DCI. Something wrong?”
“Sir…I don’t like it.”
It was the first bold statement he’d heard from the young constable. Jesse kept his voice low. “Duly noted, Fred. Not much we can do about it now.”
“I trust you don’t disapprove, Detective Inspector Bahn.” The stern bass voice tinged with a hint of amusement cut at Jesse like a knife.
Detective Chief Inspector Nikolaas Ryke smiled broadly as he walked from the interrogation room. His head was shaved bald and his eyes were a deep but cold brown. Jesse had met the upstart officer a year or so back and had taken an immediate dislike. He was cruel and violent. It didn’t help matters that he was one of the youngest Kesek men to ever make detective chief inspector—he was eleven years Jesse’s junior.
Ryke motioned with his pale hands. The guards backed the stretcher up. He removed the sifter from her head. The lights blinked slowly before dying. Ryke folded the headgear carefully and stowed it in a jacket pocket.
“Dispose of her.”
Jesse started. “Sir—”
“You heard me! She is useless. Get rid of her, I don’t care how. The others will take it as it is meant—a warning.” Ryke snapped his fingers and the guards hustled away.
Jesse stepped up
to Ryke. The younger man was built more sturdily than Jesse but lacked his height. “This is my investigation, Ryke.”
“Not any longer.”
“Your methods are uncalled for. I would have gotten the information—”
“Oh? Would that be after a candlelight dinner or a massage?” Ryke snorted. “Your methods are ineffective and weak. My methods get results.”
Jesse’s face burned. This man was everything he hated about what Kesek had become. “I needed her for intel, Ryke, not for your sick games.”
“She would not cooperate, as you knew, judging by your notes. I helped her cooperate. Or rather, I cracked her mind open.” Ryke gave that sly smile again. “Figuratively, of course.”
Jesse grabbed Ryke’s upper arm. “Listen here.”
A jab left him startled and gasping against the wall.
Ryke’s voice went deathly quiet. “Respect is fine for the weak. I need only fear. You see how far respect got you.”
Jesse locked eyes with Ryke. This isn’t over.
“Rest yourself.” Ryke was suddenly cheery. “We hunt Lydia tomorrow.”
The trio of Kesek officers left Janus for Port Amata on Dione, the most populous of Saturn’s moons. Jesse thought the cockpit felt considerably more crowded, though it carried only one additional passenger.
He refused to speak with Ryke unless asked a direct question. That was a tricky situation considering Ryke insisted on sitting next to him at the comm/nav station. Fred hunkered over an auxiliary readout screen in the back corner of the cockpit, apparently intent on staying out of their way.
“Why didn’t you have someone search Dione before now?” Ryke asked coolly.
Jesse didn’t look at him. His instrument panel was his companion. “Local police did search. But they ran a check on the personal transponders of all the 50,000 permanent residents and workers.”
“They should have conducted a more thorough investigation.”
“Ryke, there are hundreds of migrant workers coming and going from Port Amata every day, not counting the merchanter crews stopping by. They don’t wear transponders. We’re talking about the busiest port orbiting Saturn.”
“You let her escape, then.”
Jesse glared at the stars outside the cockpit viewport. Not at Ryke. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “There were plenty of leads elsewhere that had to be checked. I wasn’t about to waste my time on Dione unless I had proof.”
“I’m glad, then, that I could provide that proof.” Ryke’s voice sounded distinctly pleased.
Jesse gritted his teeth and hung on to the shuttle controls for fear his hands might take action against Ryke if he didn’t.
Before long he was aware of Ryke staring at him. “You know, Detective Inspector, I find you fascinating.”
A chill spread through Jesse’s chest. “Oh? How so?”
“Your record with Kesek is stellar, make no mistake. Save for this Lydia character, you always get your quarry. Your skill at hunting enemies of the Realm is commendable.” Ryke raised an eyebrow. “Yet you have never made an official effort to find your missing wife.”
Fred’s chair squeaked. Jesse glanced over his shoulder and saw his partner staring. Sorry, Fred. You didn’t need to know. He turned back to Ryke. “You dug up my personnel file, I see.”
“Come now, Inspector, don’t pout. It was only for the barest details.” Ryke picked at his immaculate maroon coat. It was silent in the cockpit but for instruments humming and the engines thrumming through the hull. “Your lovely Cassandra has been gone for four years now. It’s unlike you to give up the chase. I think it odd and in need of explanation.”
Memories rushed through Jesse’s mind like a video replay in fast motion. The muggy afternoon of a Maryland summer…the pale green of his residence…the back door ajar…the evidence of Cassandra’s departure…his shaking hand holding the holo-cube of her smiling face, framed by curly auburn hair and cheery with freckles…
Jesse kept his eyes locked on the distant sphere of Dione shining in the viewport. He would not let a tear slip for Ryke’s amusement. “She ran out on me without so much as a commnote. I did search, on my own, for two months straight. It looked like—there was some other man.”
“I see. That explains the ‘leave of absence, for bereavement,’” Ryke quoted, apparently from memory. His eyes narrowed. “But no commnote of explanation from the Missus, correct?”
“No, sir.” Jesse was pleased by the irony of the half-truth—a creased vellum note, handwritten and far more tangible than any commnote, rode safely in his pocket.
“Whom do you blame?”
Jesse blinked at the question. “Whom…what?”
“Surely you blame someone for this debacle, this betrayal.” Ryke’s tone was innocent but his face was calculating. “Perhaps you even hold a mysterious God accountable.”
Jesse’s mouth worked but no words came.
“Yes,” Ryke said softly. “You of all people should know better than to walk that fine line with religious exclusivity on one side.”
“I have not broken the Charter for Religious Tolerance.” Jesse forced himself to remain calm. He knew the charter inside and out. “Nor have I sullied my service to Kesek.”
“No, you haven’t. That doesn’t mean you don’t bear scrutiny.” Ryke sneered. Did he sense a triumph? “So you do blame God for her disappearance.”
Jesse frowned. There was no point denying it but he had to watch his words. “I did…for a time. Maybe I still believe that…” He let the statement trail off.
“Hmph. You would do best to rid yourself of this nonsense, Detective Inspector, before it hurts your career.” Ryke returned his attention to the comm panel.
“I understand, sir.” Jesse squeezed his eyes shut.
Ryke’s information led them to a holo-gaming suite in one of the more run-down sections of Port Amata. It was a dingy, dusty establishment called the Cave Troll. The racket of the games assaulted Jesse’s ears even as his eyes adjusted to the almost nonexistent lighting. His nose wrinkled at the overwhelming mix of stale food and sour body odor that the clanking ventilators couldn’t handle.
The primary means of illumination was the games themselves—holograms glowing green, red, or blue. The holograms ranged in size from tiny tabletop figures at a dozen cubicles to human-scale warriors and monsters battling on the wide stage at the back of the low-ceilinged hall. The occupants were all younger than 40. Everyone was talking loudly and shouting in joy or angst at their games. They were dressed in a variety of clothing from ostentatious to plain, bearing no similarity to one another except that their attire was worn out.
Jesse looked at himself, Fred, and Ryke. Three clean-cut, crisply uniformed Kesek men would be painfully obvious. Thankfully, Ryke had seen the wisdom of dressing casually in civilian jackets and pants.
“What a waste.” Ryke oozed disdain as he strode past the tables full of gamers. He snapped his fingers at a monitoring robot turning about on its two wheels.
Its spindly body rattled as it came toward them. “Do you need assistance?” it asked in a grating voice.
Ryke flashed his delver. The image of a slender black man glowed on its screen. “Find him. By order of Detective Chief Inspector Nikolaas Ryke, Royal Stability Force.”
“Affirmative.” The robot stood silently. At first Jesse thought it was ignoring them but soon realized it was processing their order. Its blue optical ports flashed rapidly.
Jesse leaned toward Ryke. “Keep your voice down.”
Ryke scowled.
“Patron is at Table Twelve, Detective Chief Inspector,” the robot said.
“Good.” Ryke motioned Jesse and Fred forward.
“Do you need assistance?” the robot asked.
Ryke growled and shoved it aside. It clattered against a table.
Table Twelve was one of four tables set against the wall to the left of the large stage at the back of the gaming hall. There, players could opt to wear full helme
ts that carried enhanced audio and video inputs. No holograms danced on the tabletops. Jesse spotted their man right away. He hadn’t seen the trio of Kesek men yet.
But there was somebody else at the table—a shorter person wearing one of those full helmets atop a black jumpsuit that bore red stripes down each side. Jesse realized abruptly it was a woman.
Lydia?
Jesse felt the bulge of his scrambler under his unzipped forest green jacket. He edged closer to Fred, who had the same weapon under his loose blue vest. “We’ve got to go carefully.”
Fred nodded. He looked nervous. “Especially considering how things went on Janus.”
“Right. You come in wide from the right, then—”
“Thaddeus Chidi!” Ryke drew his KM3 pistol from the pocket of a dark blue waistcoat. His deep voice bashed through the noise of the gaming hall. “Kesek! Put your hands up!”
Chidi took one look in their direction and froze. His companion turned, her face obscured by the helmet’s visor. Jesse almost spat in disgust at Ryke’s idiocy.
“Hands up!” Ryke advanced on Table Twelve. He held his brass badge aloft.
Chidi pulled the woman from her seat with blistering speed. He yanked a heavy Hunsaker J4 gun from his coat. Shots erupted like thunder in the cavernous room.
Jesse and Fred burst apart. Jesse tugged his scrambler from its hidden holster and rolled up against a table. Fred pushed a pair of hysterical teen boys to the floor. His scrambler whined and spat energy bursts across the room. Jesse fired, but from his prone position succeeded only in shorting out a set of holo-emitters. Sparks showered screaming patrons as they shoved for the exit.
Ryke emptied his magazine, apparently oblivious to Chidi’s gunshots whipping by. Jesse was about to tell the vac-head to get to cover when he spotted a gamer who hadn’t run in a panic. In fact, the gangly teen was ducking rather calmly behind a table. And steadying his aim with a handgun.