Liquid Crystal Nightingale

by EeLeen Lee

  Whenever Katyal was frustrated with Constabulary—which meant most of the time—she employed the royal ‘we.’ Its current overuse told Dumortier how Katyal was on edge, wrestling with the potential opportunities Gia Aront’s death had unexpectedly brought.

  “I do what I can, ma’am. Each case is unique, but happily they yield much useful information. I learnt very early on that it’s important to not disrupt the ecosystem. It’s all part of the long game.”

  “All you investigators and your ‘long games.’” Katyal stared balefully at the table’s surface as though she was looking at his fellow investigators. “Data and intelligence collected must translate into action.”

  “Take down the Tier Dwellers, their partners, their networks? Drain the canals? Shut down Khrysobe?” Dumortier tried not to snort out of respect. A noble aim, but it remained merely an intellectual exercise.

  “That’s Constabulary’s wider game, not yours—for now. Our slowness to act is compounded by the Tier Dwellers, so we end up immobile, like carvings on the Temple walls. The Tier Dwellers know this too well and exploit it.”

  “They continue to mistake investigators’ patience for slowness or absence of action. Ma’am, I recommend not dispelling that useful illusion.”

  The windows of the corridor suddenly flashed and then dimmed, as if in response to his statement. Even at this distance, from behind specialised glass, Dumortier still looked away when Gachala’s rays hit the roof of the Temple. Katyal did not flinch as she stared directly at it. She was not wearing shades.

  “That glare,” he muttered. “Doesn’t any city ordinance forbid this daily health and safety hazard?”

  “The Temple nuns told the city elders the roof is to help ‘shock awareness back into people.’ Something about—” Katyal took a deep breath and quoted: “‘The light of Gachala is not benevolent or life-giving glory, but harsh and unwavering. A strict but impartial teacher.’”

  “Bullshit.” Dumortier turned his chair away from the view while rubbing his eyes. “A fancy roof helps the Temple sell its new religion. A roof courtesy of over-generous Tier Dwellers on the committee who must’ve had final but very questionable say in its design. Fingers crossed they don’t build an extension.”

  Katyal turned around and smiled at him without mirth. “You know them so well.”

  “I assume that’s why I was assigned, ma’am.”

  “Your unique perspective would also make you a wonderful Chatoyance tour guide.”

  “I wouldn’t last long—much too honest. Too many precious tourist illusions will be shattered. Ever been to the New Areas?”

  “Where asteroid miners live?”

  Dumortier shook his head and pointed at the Lonely Heron Bridge, its metallic parabola leaping up in the distance. “Those asteroid miners.”

  “The Forty?”

  “The conditions of the New Areas would count as disaster tourism, without the tourists.”

  “They’ve been provided for, all according to mining labour laws. It takes money to manage the New Areas: even the shittier ones like Blue Taro and Boxthorn possess very decent facilities and infrastructure. Chatoyance Industrial and Mining have done well by them. Or else the inhabitants would riot.”

  “But the New Areas are originally Aront land. Chatoyance is trying to fob off the miners’ families and bury the tragedy.” Dumortier pulled up a grid map in the lower pane of the window and magnified a satellite view of the Lonely Heron Bridge. He circled a rough oval next to it. “Look. The New Areas are not marked.”

  Katyal frowned and checked the satellite timestamp in the top right corner of the map. “This says it’s up to date.”

  “They’re not marked because it’s unofficial.”

  “It’s not your concern if the land is unofficially occupied, albeit for reasons of charity.”

  “This area was intended as a water treatment plant by Aront Corporation before it became a 15-acre wasteland, a reminder of the Downturn. Now it’s a reminder of Kerte Yurgi—which is much more recent and painful. Relocating the residents now will take years of legal wrangling. Some people would very much prefer to make Aront Corp rescind its ownership of the New Areas. And then Chatoyants would like Kerte Yurgi to fade from public consciousness.”

  Katyal remained unmoved. “Proceed as you would a normal accident investigation.”

  “Ma’am, it isn’t normal, or an accident.”

  Katyal asked, “What’s your theory?”

  “Someone wants the land back from Chatoyance Industrial.”

  “So they murder Gia Aront in an accident-not-accident? Does that sound absurd?”

  “Hell knows? The Aronts, their rivals and their rivals’s rivals”—Dumortier shrugged—“double, triple and quadruple crossings. Disputes over refinery contracts, moon bases or the mineral rights of asteroids floating between gas giants. The land can be a new research facility, canal wharf or another barracks for their House guards. Nothing’s impossible.”

  “I assume nothing about our chances,” said Katyal. “Everyday I’ve been searching for a fault or crack in the Aront floodgate that we can concentrate on, something we can wedge open: scandals, corruption, affairs. Now we have the ultimate murder. This moment in time is crucial. We may never have an opportunity like this again. Do you understand?”

  Another voice interrupted from behind Dumortier.

  “They’re vulnerable, which means they’ll make mistakes in judgment.”

  He glanced back down the length of the corridor and saw a silhouette with perfect posture approaching the conference table. It resolved itself into the figure of Lieutenant Sakamoto. How long had she been listening in? She walked in with both hands clasped behind her back, as if she was still on a parade ground.

  “Pleo Tanza is reckless.” Sakamoto seemed confident. “If she acted alone. Don’t underestimate that.”

  “Autopilot,” Dumortier muttered as he rose from the table. His spiral had vanished. “She bides her time for a chance to hit back at those who failed her father and her community at Kerte Yurgi.”

  Sakamoto glanced at Dumortier dismissively. “I heard the Aronts requested you. Specifically,” she said.

  “My reputation precedes me,” replied Dumortier, and gauging from Sakamoto’s stiff posture she did not like his answer. “Are you surprised they didn’t go with one of their private sniffer hounds?”

  “I don’t appreciate your tone—although not unwarranted, given most of your cases concern Tier Dwellers. At least pretend you’re pleased by their request. Patriarch Aront’s only child is dead. He calls it outrageous that an accident like this could occur and he wants a name and face he can trust.”

  Dumortier was relieved to hear that Patriarch Aront himself viewed his daughter’s death as accidental. No need to reconstruct Gia Aront’s final hours and minutes, map out her relationships or document mundane details of her daily routine to retraumatise her parents.

  Katyal frowned. “Do you want this handed over to Aront outliers? That’ll happen, if you delay for long.”

  “Not a chance,” he replied quickly, unsure if it was with pride or folly—perhaps both. “I’ve summoned a Detainment unit to bring in Saurebaras.”

  “Call that off too.”

  “But she’s still in Polyteknical.”

  “Bring in Saurebaras now and we risk our chances. I can’t guarantee her safety, or that of our personnel.” Katyal’s voice had sing-song cadence of someone who had been repeating herself for a long time. She sounded tired.

  “Saurebaras has undergone intensive somatic reconditioning,” Sakamoto said.

  “In the more extreme sense of the term.” Dumortier sighed theatrically, then went to the wall console and traced out the command on the pad. “Does the Patriarch know my less-than-stellar record? I don’t want him to suddenly change his mind about me halfway through the case.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” said Katyal. “The Aronts know your experience when it comes to Tier Dweller cases.�
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  “Doesn’t he love oversinging our praises?” Dumortier muttered to the tiled floor. “Especially when he needs us. Or wants us to think he does.”

  “At the moment, we can exploit the Aronts’ dependence on us,” Sakamoto said. Her conversational style reminded Dumortier of old Pre-Downturn Constabulary training films—short bursts of exposition and observation followed by silence.

  “So, carry on, but don’t try and bring in Saurebaras or Tanza,” observed Dumortier dryly. “Have I missed anything?”

  “That’s it,” replied Katyal. “Dismissed.”

  Dumortier reached the door of the Sunlight Corridor when Katyal spoke up again.

  “One more thing, Dumortier.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Why do you call Tyro Pleo Tanza ‘queen’? That codeword was only ever used on Tier Dweller suspects.”

  “Ma’am, she has presence even when sitting in a cell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  DUMORTIER PARKED THE Shirpen under the elevated T-Car track. The vehicle was standard issue, but the dents were all his, as he liked to joke from time to time. He gave himself ten minutes to hurl a packet of stale coffee granules down his throat before opening the butterfly wing door. The familiar odour of urine, stale algae coffee, and recycled oil wafted towards the Shirpen from various stalls and cubby-hole eateries.

  As soon as he locked and left the Shirpen, a T-Car creaked into the platform overhead and discharged its latest throng of commuters. People flowed onto Polyteknical Station concourse, brandishing their fare tokens and discarding highlights.

  It had been three years since Dumortier had been anywhere near the school, and yet the place drew him back today. He remembered getting lost in the overhanging maze of walkways. Back then the Polyteknical had set itself apart from the flow of grimy streets and buildings, like a military base in a civilian area. Today, the college merged with its cleaned-up surroundings until any distinctions between pavement and prestige broke down. And yet the streets still reeked of frying food and piss.

  A shimmering golden mist of nanoscale machines coalesced above the street to track all movements, including his own. Just as Katyal and Sakamoto had informed him, the new Mias surveillance network was already up and running without any teething problems. Dumortier remained skeptical—if Mias did not turn out to be a hindrance like its predecessor Oias, he would be surprised.

  He slipped away from the main street into a dingy alley to avoid any chance recognition by street vendors. He recalled using the Polyteknical delivery entrance which, by some administrative miracle or oversight, still existed.

  He picked his way along a dim winding passage, shuffling past storerooms of discarded equipment and furniture. The heady scent of syringa greeted him before he emerged into Polyteknical’s Garden of Contemplation, still well-maintained despite an obvious absence of horticulture servitors. A student, eyes closed, sat in quiet contemplation inside the cross-section of a boulder-sized geode of powder blue agate. Other bisected geodes had supplanted much of the grass, their collective weight inducing fine cracks in the flagstones and abutting the precisely-arranged bonsai. A meditation pool spread at the foot of a wall, fed by a fine turquoise waterfall.

  The trickling of the water on the wall evoked a gentle tropical shower, but didn’t quite drown out the persistent hum of Polyteknical’s surveillance system. He had been given a choice when he was promoted to investigator: optical or audio enhancements. Most of his colleagues opted for optical enhancements such as night vision. Ever the contrarian, he had gone for audio enhancements, and he paid the price ever since in the form of headaches when his cochlea was overloaded.

  Dumortier passed through an archway and located the free-standing staircase on the far side of the garden, the hexagonal tempered glass steps winding around a central support pillar of polished malachite. He broke into a fast stride, stopping at the top of the stairs to let a dozen students file past him. Like a stranger at a wedding, he ignored their whispers and curious glances.

  He paused before he found his way to the multipurpose hall, staring at the five perforations in the pillar as if they were a puzzle which had eluded him for years. But he knew their origins—they could have so easily been five perforations in his skull instead.

  The multihall and the corridor leading up to it was still off limits. The Spinel guards interposed themselves in front of the doors as a signal for Dumortier to identify himself, but immediately moved aside to admit him when he showed them the paiza tattoo set below his collarbone: three broken horizontal lines of gold filament set on a scarlet square. Paizas gave select Constabulary officers and investigators unhindered access, and overrode most Chatoyance authority. The guards were to render Dumortier any assistance and protection as may be necessary.

  The guards opened the doors to admit him, but Dumortier remained outside for a moment, not wishing to immediately disturb a recent crime scene. The hall was no longer the flamboyant place of interior design it had been three years ago.

  A beep from his proximity sensor sounded in his left ear, but Dumortier had already sensed Saurebaras approach him from behind and activated the recording stud set into his collarbone. He tensed, remembering what happened at the demonstration three years ago and touched his splinter heart gun in the holster under his coat.

  The reconditioning appeared to be holding up. “They sent you—how depressingly predictable,” he heard Saurebaras mutter, unaware he could hear her. Then she added, more loudly, “Auditions and recreational classes have ended for this term. Come back next year.”

  His presence today did not seem to surprise her. Maybe she was expecting it. After all this time she was expecting nothing less. Her voice was equal parts velvet and impish surprise. The officious choice of her words underscored the contempt beneath them.

  “I don’t dance,”replied Dumortier.

  “So I won’t keep you here. I’m sure you have a waiting list of suspects to rough up.”

  “I don’t shatter my knuckles during interrogation anymore. We outsource that sort of treatment now. Harder to trace.”

  A faint vein stood out on Saurebaras’s forehead as she asked, “Still an officer?”

  “Senior investigator,” corrected Dumortier.

  She moved past him and rested her hands on the balustrade overlooking the garden.

  “Congratulations on the promotion, but you haven’t gone up in the world.”

  The prospect of investigation was not fazing her, but something else was playing on her nerves, making her censor her answers before vocalising them, so that she wavered between flintiness and palpable relief. She kept her back to him.

  “And you’re still here,” said Dumortier. He tried appealing to her professional pride. “What a pity. This art they make you teach in Polyteknical isn’t the real you. It’s the foam riding on a tsunami.”

  “Better than clearing out the dead for the Tiers,” said Saurebaras.

  “Gia Aront was unfortunate,” said Dumortier.

  “You believe that?”

  “Who wouldn’t mind swapping places to be sole heir to the Aront business empire for a day?” Dumortier gazed at the sky, as if it was part of the Aront empire.

  “Her father must not be all that upset, or else he’d shut down Polyteknical instead of sending a single investigator.” Saurebaras drummed her fingers on the balustrade. Doves cooed from the garden below.

  “I don’t doubt that, but how her parents feel is not my concern here. Can you think of why Tyro Pleo Tanza would try to kill Gia Aront?”

  “She didn’t try to kill Gia.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  “Of course. It happened in front of me and twelve other students.”

  “Isn’t it an odd coincidence that a sparring session spun out of control yesterday? Up until then, you had a spotless record. Less people die or get injured around you than ought to, given your history.”

  “It’s rare to get injured during recreational st
riking or training,” agreed Saurebaras. “A responsible instructor won’t let you spar before six to twelve months. By this time, you’ve learned impulse control. Unless you’re training to compete, you should have next to no risk of severe or fatal injury.”

  “So tell me what happened.”

  “But you’re insinuating that I set it up? Or perhaps let an accident occur.”

  “No, I’m not. You haven’t been charged with negligence—yet. A warrant needs evidence of malfeasance, or nonfeasance.”

  “I don’t come to your canton and insult you, investigator.”

  “I’m going inside the hall. Accompany us, please,” Dumortier ordered both guards.

  Interesting choice of words, he thought. Constabulary hadn’t completely erased what tact was left in him.

  The empty hall was dim, but Gachalan light streamed through the ceiling panels, casting sunspots on the floor. A spider web of cord and lines ran down from the ceiling, supporting a tunnel of tents made of translucent sheets. Yesterday, a team of Constabulary forensic technicians had sectioned off the piste where Gia and Pleo had their bout, and the surrounding area.

  The Spinel guards remained at the entrance to the tunnel as Dumortier stepped inside the piste where the fatal bout had happened. A wall screen lit up as the piste sensed his presence, though the ovals remained inactive.

  Dumortier raised both arms and watched the figure on the wall screen do the same. Saurebaras called out to him from the other side of the sheet.

  “The piste is sensitive to movement inside it, but doesn’t completely activate when it detects just one person. It’s preparing for a solo.”

  “What about movement outside it?”

  Saurebaras stamped in staccato four times as though Dumortier had just finished sparring. The piste stopped moving and hummed as it powered down.

  “The piste responds to me alone, and I’ve just assessed your performance—mediocre. Vacate the piste.”

  He did so.

  “I was hoping, with the presence of two co-operating Spinels, we’d cease this habitual dance of words. A diversion, I’ll admit, that is not unengaging,” said Dumortier. He asked again, “Where is Tyro Pleo Tanza?”