The Constable Returns

by J. N. Chaney

  I understood his meaning immediately and nodded. “Which would make me stand out.”

  Max looked pleased that I was taking his advice and grinned. “Exactly. People don’t like it when you make them feel dumb. Watch this.”

  Max seemed to transform in front of my eyes. He straightened and squared his shoulders, then arranged his features into serious lines.

  “Range Master Hogan, I’m afraid I have come with regrettable news.”

  I had to admit that I was impressed. The younger Tiro spoke in a clear voice that had lost all traces of the drawl, though from a slight crease in his brow I could tell it took some concentration.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” I said, trying out more informal phrasing. “But what is the point?”

  He shrugged, lapsing back into his other persona. “When people don’t think you’re as smart as them, they tend to get more comfortable.”

  “You’re going to make an excellent Constable, Tiro Shelton,” I said.

  Max chuckled. “See, I could say something like ‘so I’ve been told,’ but what people really want to hear is a simple thank you.”

  We moved away from the bench and continued in to see Range Master Hogan. Inside, the sound of gunfire was barely audible due to heavy soundproofing, and it only became more apparent as we weaved our way through the hallways to the testing range.

  Hogan was overseeing a group of Tiros while the man Max had brought to my attention, Vetus Lanier, showed another student how to field strip a rifle. The Vetus paused and took his personal datapad out of his back pocket, frowned at the screen, then replaced it.

  I waved to Hogan and indicated I wished to speak with him. I purposely bumped into Lanier as I passed by him on my way into the range area, grabbing his pad and stowing it under my shirt.

  The Rangemaster flashed me his index finger in a “hold on” gesture, then held a hand up before dropping it again. “Fire!”

  The group took a collective shot across the range. None of them hit critical areas of their holo targets.

  Hogan moved down the line, grudgingly helping each recruit by adjusting their stance, aim, or weapon hold. Once satisfied, he stepped to the side and held his hand up again. “Ready!” Hogan’s hand dropped again. “Fire!”

  Another round of shots crossed the range. One center and three misses.

  Hogan nodded sharply. “Olsen was the only one that learned from his first shot. Think before you fire. Not every weapon you come across will be intuitive, but you must find the best way to utilize it. Instincts count, but so does calculation. Practice stripping your weapons with Vetus Lanier for the next few minutes.”

  He turned to me. “You need something, Tiro Malloy?”

  I took a step closer and spoke quietly to better prevent the group from overhearing. It also had the side benefit of forcing Hogan to lean closer in order to hear me.

  “I have sensitive information about Vetus Lanier that I need to convey.” I gestured to the Vetus covertly. “If you have a moment.”

  Hogan maintained his intensity, the mainstay lack of emotion of any drill instructor. He nodded curtly to the door of his office. Max and I followed him wordlessly as he stepped to the office door, held it open, and waved us in.

  “Now, what’s this about?” asked Hogan in an unassuming tone.

  It struck me that he didn’t bombard me with questions or seem too uncomfortable in my presence, which pleased me.

  I’d prepared my speech on the way in after studying Lanier. Three things had been immediately apparent. He was naturally pale and haggard in appearance, at least for a Constable. The dark circles under his eyes told me this was likely due to lack of sleep. Second, his fingers were discolored and his nails cracked. The observation suggested the Vetus was doing something with his hands involving chemicals. From the tone of the discoloration, I judged it to be a mixture of chromium and acetone. It was therefore a logical assumption that Lanier was stripping serials from weapons.

  Finally, he had a mark on his neck just below the collar. It was a peak patch, a synthetic combat drug used to keep soldiers alert through static duty assignments. The patch secreted growth hormones that revitalized muscle tissue to prevent atrophy from sitting in cramped spaces for long intervals.

  With my analysis completed before I walked into the office, I felt sure of what I was about to say.

  “Rangemaster Hogan, before I make an accusation, I need to confirm that you’ve been derelict in your own duties.”

  The always intense Hogan flashed a redder shade and his limbs trembled with the force of his restraint before he got himself under control, crossed his arms, and fixed me with a hard look.

  Max coughed discreetly and I realized my mistake.

  “That is to say, there may well be inconsistencies in the facility’s records.”

  Hogan regarded me with thinly veiled anger for a moment before speaking. “For any other Tiro I would count those words as expulsion-worthy. But I know about you and your particular skill set, Malloy. I’ll give you one chance to explain.”

  It had struck me as odd before that the tech Max grabbed was tagged with a tracker that didn’t seem to be activated. A malfunction would explain why no one had come after it, but for some reason I couldn’t say yet, I knew it was intentionally disabled. There was a chance I was wrong, but it was acceptably small.

  “Well?” said Hogan when I didn’t answer right away.

  “If you check your records carefully for mid-range firearms, you will find several have been dead-ended within the systems,” I said in an even tone. “They will be listed as delivered to a location or in the possession of a Constable that made no requisition. Cross reference recommended gear for any current dispatch and you will see discrepancies.”

  Hogan held my gaze for a long second then sat at his terminal and started pulling up information while Max and I waited. He scanned through a few entries. It took a dozen before I had the patterns and codes down. His system was coded and nuanced from years of work. I pointed at a particular entry. “That one. You’ll notice it has a recipient headed into the Deadlands, where it will be either destroyed or lost. The chances of that specific weapon returning are so low that you have a system in place to automatically decommission them unless they turn back up. It saves you time and effort but leaves a hole for Lanier to move his contraband.”

  I took the pad I had swiped from Lanier when I bumped into him and placed it next to Hogan. “Vetus Lanier was trying to move a few entries to another account—muddy the water, as it were.”

  Hogan looked between the pad and his terminal with a grim expression. “This is…” He paused, biting the inside of his mouth for a brief moment. “Tiro Malloy, I thank you for bringing this to my attention. Naturally, we can’t go purely off of the word of a Tiro and a hunch. A formal request will need to be made for me to investigate the matter with witnesses and corroborating evidence. It would make things easier if I had concrete proof before I initiate the--”

  Max pulled the biotech out of his pocket and presented it to Hogan. “Like this?”

  I cleared my throat. “Tiro Shelton came to me with his suspicions about the issue after he noticed the firing primer was in requisitions for repair, despite it being in perfect working order,” I explained. “He could tell at once it was misplaced.”

  The Range Master nodded and accepted the piece, turning it over in his hands to study it. After a minute, he shook his head. “Quite so,” he said, then tapped a command into his wrist unit, opening the door to the office. “Vetus Lanier,” he called out. “A minute of your time, please.”

  Lanier walked into the room. “Something the matter with one of my students?”

  Hogan gave the Vetus a disappointed look. “On the contrary, Vetus. The problem lies in you.”

  “I don’t follow,” said Lanier.

  “Don’t you?” asked Hogan. “Some startling evidence has come to light that implicates you in a matter that is--well, quite unsettling, to put it p
lainly.”

  Lanier stiffened. It was slight, but noticeable. “I don’t know what you mean. Whatever it is you’ve heard, I assure you I’ve done nothing wrong. I--”

  Hogan raised his hand to quiet the man. “Save your words for when you’ll need them, but when the time comes, I suggest you think carefully on them. The truth will come out, one way or the other. You should know that as well as anyone.”

  “This is outrageous!” snapped Lanier. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

  “I hereby invoke the Right of the Scale to have you removed from duty,” said Hogan, his voice booming with authority.

  Two military police officers who had been observing the live fire line approached a few moments later and marched over to the resistant Vetus.

  Hogan called the four students from the other room. “Observe what happens when you do not consider all points of failure for a plan,” he said, his demeanor back to that of a surly drill instructor. “Arrogance can make you sloppy, and you will fail.” He nodded to Vetus Lanier. “Accompany your former Vetus and see him taken to the Primus Rhetor. He will be held there and tried for crimes against the Tower. As with every failure, let his be a lesson to you all.”

  The students followed the handcuffed Lanier as the MPs dragged him away.

  Hogan clapped me and Max on the shoulder. “Excellent work to both of you. I’ll have my hands full scrutinizing my logs and changing my systems to avoid this in the future. Your actions will be noted in your personnel files. Dismissed.”

  We left the firing gallery and stopped by one of the many holo news boards outside. Max offered me his hand. “I sure appreciate the help, Tiro Malloy. Don’t think I’d have figured it out as quickly without you.”

  I shook his hand. “Anytime.”

  He smiled. “Hey, you’re getting the hang of this blending thing. Keep practicing and I don’t think there’ll be any stopping you.”

  I nodded. “Thanks… Max.” I recalled Maevik’s insistence on first names to keep things informal and hoped he wouldn’t mind.

  He gave me a sloppy salute and then dropped it. “Why Al, I’m touched. See you around, friend.” Max smiled and headed back toward the bastion.

  2

  I returned to the Red Keep and picked up where I’d left off, reading through notes about the recent takeover of a mine in the highly volatile White Cross system five months ago. The case file was peculiar. Certain discrepancies in the chain of events had me puzzled. The Sarkonian people both requested aid and rejected aid on two separate occasions. This might have been a matter of poor notation, where the request was made and the aid offered was rejected, but such poor notation was suspect in itself.

  The mining operation certainly had issues. Unlike the entries regarding aid, the notation on workers killed in accidents was clear and extremely detailed. This was another red flag for the veracity of the rest of the report. It was possible the undercover Constable of Record, Kagen Griffen, was more fastidious in his mining particulars and anatomy than he was in local protocols and political structure. Even so, his level of detail in one section of the report would normally invite a note about his lack of knowledge elsewhere.

  The tonal shifts and word choices also changed from one section to the next, indicating Constable Griffen hadn’t written all of them. This wasn’t uncommon. A report did not necessarily show the record of events for a lone agent, but no other editors or contributors were listed. The lack of a transparency was suspicious.

  Outside of the issues with the report, what drew me to the events in White Cross were the particulars of the operations and the rare material dug out of the mine: N02-99.

  Due to scarcity and its use in reinforcing the hulls of Sarkonian ships, N02-99 was a highly sought-after metal—at least by the Sarkonian Empire. I had a hunch that the mine held more value than just the alloy.

  After reading through the notes again, I determined that the requests for aid were actually coded messages detailing the discovery of compounds used for synthesizing neutronium. The only quantities of neutronium known to exist in the galaxy resided in Union labs more tightly guarded than Alara’s location. If the plans were to build a sophisticated refining plant on the newly acquired planet, the Constable presence there made more sense.

  I felt a bit of an itch reading the reports, a feeling of a challenge that I had not experienced since I worked through the particulars of the raid of the Union facility on Meridian.

  “Tiro Malloy,” said a voice behind me.

  Recognizing the speaker, I stood immediately, turned, and saluted.

  “Sir!” I said, then dropped my hand.

  It was my Vetus, Dorian Tribal, standing at the end of the row. He was older but still in his prime, as evidenced by my failure to detect his arrival. He held himself in a relaxed combat stance nearly every time that we spoke. The Vetus had held numerous military and police positions throughout his life and was rumored to be one of the best pilots the Union had. He was quiet, observant, and seemed perpetually ready for action. It was an attitude I respected and appreciated immensely. Many of the older Veti I had encountered, though smart, were hollow or cold. The constant stress of the demanding nature of their postings either burned them out or made them somewhat cynical and detached. With Vetus Tribal, it was different. A unique mentor for a unique protégé, perhaps.

  “At ease,” he said, coming to the table and giving my holo docs a cursory glance. “I can see you’ve been working that exceptional brain of yours, Malloy. You see a puzzle and can’t help yourself.”

  “Yes, Vetus. Just going over some data that didn’t sit right with me.”

  He gave me an approving nod, then his mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile. “Your instincts are, as usual, correct. However, in this case, probing would not be welcome. Let’s leave this alone, shall we? Shaw wants to see you.”

  I perked up at the mention of Shaw, who I’d not seen for a few months. If he wanted to see me now…

  The playful glint in Tribal’s eye told me I’d been right and that Tribal wasn’t angry. It felt good after a lifetime of suppressing my observations. Tribal gave no indication that I might be in trouble and I wondered if his pleasant demeanor could mean that I would finally be going on my first mission.

  “As you say, Vetus.”

  I turned to switch off the portable holo display and disconnected the White Cross records from my datapad. Vetus Tribal waited for me casually, none of his movements or facial cues giving away what was on his mind. It was another aspect of the man that I found appealing, his ability to conceal what he was thinking, that made him an efficient Constable and Vetus that I could and did learn from.

  When I finished cleaning up, he headed in the direction of Shaw’s office, indicating for me to follow.

  “You placed everything back where you found it, even if it was out of place,” he noted as we walked. “It’s a good habit. Never leave it to be collected or give it to any archivist. You don’t want to risk it sparking the interests of anyone else or being misfiled and lost. The same can be said when you’re out in the field.”

  I knew that every exchange with a Vetus was a learning experience, so I took his words at face value and detected the underlying meaning. I was sure now that Shaw was finally giving me an assignment.

  Vetus Tribal adjusted his uniform as we descended to the ground. Originally a gesture I saw as a compulsion, or boredom, before I thought it was to check a concealed weapon. This late in our mentor/protégé relationship, I was convinced it was a purposeful red herring, a gesture designed to draw attention to nothing.

  “What tipped you off about the mining records?”

  The impromptu pop quiz forced my attention away from his movements, though I noticed he continued to fidget as I gathered the evidence in my head, then I proceeded to give Tribal an overview of my findings.

  The Vetus listened patiently until I’d finished before chiming in. “That’s good work, Tiro Malloy. Breaking the code in particular.”
<
br />   I tipped my chin in thanks. “A wise teacher taught me that hiding my intentions in plain sight was always the more prudent path, so I assume others follow this creed as well. I’ve been looking at different reports about mining operations across the inner worlds to see how Constables operate in different settings.” I paused, deliberating over whether to continue, then decided it might be a test and spoke again. “Sir, may I ask why you moved your service weapon to the opposite hip?”

  Tribal smiled widely and winked. “I’m glad you caught that, even with the distraction. Malloy, I think it’s time for you to lose the Tiro designation.”

  The lift doors opened, and we exited into the offices at the base of the Tower. Vetus Tribal gave a smile and a tip of his cap to Archeio Palimorie.

  “While overachievement is appreciated, sticking your foot in a troubling operation with a potential personal connection might be seen as returning to the scene of the crime. I don’t recommend it,” he warned. “At least until your loyalty has been proven.”

  I considered that for a moment as we walked in silence, then I remembered my earlier discussion with Tiro Shelton about blending in.

  “Do you know what Shaw wants?” I asked, thinking that to be a normal question, even if I already knew the answer.

  “An excellent question, Tiro Malloy. I’ll leave that to Shaw to explain, but I think we can manage a quick lesson here. Asking questions creates a verbal opening. It lays out—”

  I sighed and mimicked the teaching in the strident tones of Professor Nhiki. “It lays out a gambit that allows you to control the interaction with a subject. Asking a question is an aggressive move that seeks to push an agenda and manipulate a subject.” Then in my usual tone I said, “It’s also how people show they care about what is happening to them and their time.”

  Vetus Tribal smirked at my impression and gave me a nod. “Two answers, and both were equally valid.” He took a few rushed steps ahead of me, stopping at a door that led to small hangar, and checked his wrist unit. “We’re taking a personal transport into the atmosphere in ten minutes. Wait here.”