Torn From On High: Free City Book 2 (The Free City Series) (6 page)

12. News Item:
Slaughter in orbit!

Dateline: 7th of August, 2446;
Aboard the salvage ship Billikin in Low Earth Orbit

Adrift
high above the heads of the lowly humans on Earth is a most disturbing crime
scene.

Free
City Investigators were called in to sift through the bloody mess onboard the
salvage ship
Billikin
in Low Earth Orbit late yesterday. The immense
floating boneyard of space debris has the grisly distinction of being the site
of the largest mass murder onboard a near-Earth vessel in over eighty years.

Rumors
have spread in the past few days that some sort of terrible fate had befallen
the good ship and crew but none had predicted the gruesomeness of the deed.

While
investigators at the Free City Inquisitor's Office remain maddeningly mute
about the slaughter, an eyewitness account has surfaced from another source.

“The
butchery was quite disturbing,” reported ninety-seven year-old Free City
resident Seamus Nelson who was a former crewman onboard the
Billikin
.
The retired Ship's Engineer accompanied investigators when they first
discovered the massacre on the marooned vessel.

“There
were dreadful signs of torture and one body was ritualistically displayed,”
confided Mr. Nelson about the horrific massacre. He indicated that the
investigators had rapidly pieced together many details at the crime scene and
that arrests were likely soon.

This
morning the Space Salvage Cartel, which has been supplied with significant
quantities of scrap materials in the past from the
Billikin
, offered a
hefty reward of fifty thousand Standard Units to anyone who aids in the capture
of the mass murderers.

Those
with any information about the atrocities onboard the
Billikin
are urged
to contact the Free City Inquisitor's Office at once.

Sabra
sat stiffly on the hard wooden bench in the hushed and nearly empty hallway
just outside of the office. Many of the trinkets and baubles crowded around her
low-cut attire jangled softly as she moved.

She
certainly was quite a spectacle at the subdued and straitlaced institution.

The
receptionist at the Connaught School for Disadvantaged Girls had made no effort
to hide her distaste for Sabra when she had arrived nearly an hour earlier. Now
she waited to be called into the office of the Head of the School.

Sabra
thought it was amusing early on; sitting nervously, as she had occasionally
done during her own childhood, to be scolded for some minor transgression by
the principal or head teacher, but this was different: she was an adult now and
was being generously compensated to tend to this particular matter.

Sabra
silently considered whether it would be appropriate to mention the stuffy and
inhospitable treatment that she'd received to her esteemed employer.

He
would likely be displeased, but with whom? Sabra or the staff of the Connaught
School?

Two
days earlier, the mysterious redheaded woman had reappeared at the
Investigations
Into Alternative Lifestyles 501
classroom at the University. She had pulled
Sabra aside before the instruction had begun and told her of a rare opportunity
for a well-paid job.

When
Sabra had dithered and expressed a reluctance to take on the responsibility,
the fiery redhead just snickered, “The hundred Units that you owe me says
you'll accept the job, sweetie.”

Thwarted
by her lack of funds, Sabra followed the woman out of the classroom and down to
the Student Union.

They
nudged their way through the crowd at the sprawling food court and slipped into
a small cafe. There in the back, seated alone as he thumbed through a thick
stack of documents was a graying older man. He could have been a professor or
senior researcher at the University, Sabra judged by his appearance and
detached manner.

The
redhead stood politely at the table awaiting the old man's attention with her
hand clasped firmly around Sabra's wrist.

After
several seconds, he looked up from the document that he'd been studying, “Yes?”

“Inspector
Trop of the Inquisitor's Office?” the woman inquired.

Sabra
had winced at the question; was she about to start working for a cop?

“Please;”
the man smiled warmly, “call me Ryo.”

The
woman bowed a bit, “Fair enough.”

She
tugged Sabra to the forefront, “Ryo, this is Miss Sabra MacFarland and she is
most enthusiastically seeking the hired companion position for your
twelve-year-old child.”

The
man grinned wryly at the introduction and beckoned Sabra to sit.

The
mysterious woman hovered nearby for a minute or so before dashing off.

In an
endearing and slightly befuddled way, Ryo explained to Sabra about his
faltering efforts as the guardian of the young girl. The Connaught School was
tending to her education and he was nurturing her as best he could in a
fatherly way, but what she really needed now was a world-wise young woman as a
sort of surrogate older sister.

Ryo
had stared pleadingly into her eyes at one point, “Dilma could really use the
help.”

And
so, with only a bit more prompting, she had taken the job without even meeting
the child.

The
'work' sounded absurdly easy for the amount of pay that he had offered. Sabra
would fetch Dilma each day at school and then tend to her from 3 in the
afternoon until 7 in the evening, entertaining her in any way that she saw fit.
Occasionally she would look after Dilma for several days if an investigation
took Ryo away from the city.

They
were to avoid trouble “if possible,” Ryo had winked. However he would not be
upset, he assured her, if they engaged in minor mischief.

Ryo
tapped out an advance payment of five hundred Units for the first week's wages
on a payment interface and handed her a thick stack of documents with the
particulars and permissions to pick up Dilma at the Connaught School in two
day's time.

“Be
aware,” Ryo cautioned, “that Dilma is quite clever but terribly naive.”

• • •

Sabra
stared with icy annoyance at the prim old biddy as she meticulously examined
the credentials.

The
Head of the Connaught School had kept her waiting for over two hours and now
seemed intent on finding some technicality to thwart Sabra in her effort to
take charge of Dilma.

The
stern gray woman sighed and handed the documents back to Sabra, “I don't like
you.”

Sabra's
eyes narrowed at the comment.

Perhaps,
she guessed, this was some sort of rather cruel test by the hardhearted Head of
the School to discover whether she possessed the inner toughness to deal with
the emotional ups and downs that twelve-year-old Dilma might present.

The
old woman coldly appraised her for several seconds, “I don't like your
unconventional lifestyle or appearance. I don't care for your choice in higher education.
I certainly do not fancy your conspicuous body odor and your apparent lack of
bathing.”

Sabra
scowled at the scolding.

“I'm
afraid that your paperwork is flawlessly in order and the properly notarized
instructions from Inspector Trop are quite clear,” the crone huffed with
annoyance, “I must turn Dilma over to a wretch that I would not trust to walk
my dog.”

Sabra
felt a delightful surge of adrenaline; she had quietly achieved a surprising
victory over the moldering and rigid woman who typified the fading old guards
of single-minded morality. Sabra had, as an unashamed member of the forward
thinking Enlightenment Crusade, at least temporarily, vanquished a
representative of the inflexible class system of the past.

Perhaps,
as she now postulated Ryo had surmised two days earlier, she would indeed make
an excellent mentor for Dilma.

• • •

A
rather timid looking dark-haired girl was waiting with her school supplies at
the reception desk when Sabra finally left the oppressive office of the Head of
the Connaught School at 4 PM.

With
an uncommon air of recently hard-won self-confidence, Sabra appraised her shy
young protégé.

Dilma
was much smaller and thinner than Sabra had imagined; with huge sad brown eyes,
a drawn angular face dappled with hundreds of faint freckles and a brushed-back
mane of long, slightly rippled coffee-colored hair to frame it all.

The
girl drooped dolefully down at the approach of her new nanny.

“Hi;”
Sabra summoned a broad smile, “are you Dilma?”

The
youngster nodded warily.

“I am
Sabra. It is nice to finally meet you.”

The
woman held out her hand in greeting.

Dilma
studied the open palm for several seconds before delicately tracing the lines
and furrows of Sabra's skin with her tiny fingertips.

The
girl stared up at the woman in awe.

“You're
very pretty,” she whispered.

“As
are you.”

Dilma
blushed.

Sabra
hoisted the youngster's school bag, “Shall we lope about the city for a few
hours?”

The
girl gently fingered the dozens of tiny metal medallions and beads that jingled
invitingly from Sabra's colorful corset top.

The
woman marveled at the child's unrestrained curiosity, “Perhaps, if Inspector
Trop sees fit, we will find you some clothes like these in a few weeks.”

Dilma
eagerly nodded at the suggestion.

“But
there's just one thing, Sabra.”

“What
is it, sweetie?”

The
girl produced a radiant smile for the first time, “
Everyone
calls him
Ryo.”

Sabra
smiled as they headed out into the cold breeze of the city, “So I've heard.”

14. News Item:
Kufuzu alive?

Dateline: 8th of August, 2446;
Nairobi, EurAfrica, Earth

Tantalizing
rumors have surfaced in the back alleys and drinking establishments of Nairobi
that Daniel Kufuzu, the Benevolent and Exalted Fourth Warlord of EurAfrica
may
have, by some unexplained miracle, survived last year's destruction of Arusha.

Although
the EurAfrican authorities in our de facto capital of New Rome steadfastly
maintain that Kufuzu was vaporized along with nine million others by the
antimatter bomb that destroyed the former capital on the Maasai Steppes, the
pervasiveness and fervor of this street-buzz begs for further investigation.

Speculation
ranges from the reasonable suggestions that our beloved leader was, in fact,
recuperating from a minor malady at the seaside palace in Morocco during the
blast to the ludicrous jabber that the Exalted One has somehow been recloned as
a fully cognitive adult in a secret desert laboratory.

All
rumors suggest that Daniel Kufuzu will soon return to his rightful status as
Warlord of EurAfrica and sweep aside the bleating bureaucrats in New Rome that
have allowed the lowly serfs and slaves in our doleful Fiefdom to grumble aloud
about their situation.

With
the current untenable turmoil in the streets and workhouses of Nairobi, that
bold action cannot come soon enough.

With
the re-entry thrusters no longer needed, Keira engaged the dive brakes and the
thin, turbulent air of the upper Mesosphere began to buffet the compact patrol
craft.

The
drag caused by the relentless collision between the ethereal air molecules and
the wide, flat projections would greatly slow the ship in the coming minutes
causing it to fall out of orbit and dissipate over thirty million watt-hours of
kinetic energy along the way.

Ryo
cringed from the steadily increasing battering inflicted upon him by the
shuddering craft. The rough treatment of re-entry was an unwelcome requirement
for the return to Earth; thankfully not one that he'd often had to endure.

Seamus
groaned at the steadily increasing punishment and muttered a Gaelic prayer for
salvation.

Between
slight adjustments to the controls, Keira chuckled at the angst of her elderly
companions. “What is it with old gents and re-entry?”

The
rapidly increasing g-forces that pressed down on the men prevented either of
them from answering.

After
many minutes, the automatic descent program slowly retracted the dive brakes
and engaged the aerodynamic control surfaces.

“Alright,”
Keira finally told the men, “we're at about a thirty thousand meters above the
Pacific just north of the equator.”

She
tapped at the controls for several seconds. “Hang on; we're about to veer
southeast for a three hour trip to our objective.”

The
young pilot studied the particulars about their destination.

“Hopefully
we have three survival suits onboard. It's going to be dark, windy and very
cold when we get there.”

• • •

“I
don't see any place to land,” Ryo scowled as he stared out at the
night-shrouded estuary.

Keira
looped around Cumberland East Bay for a second look, “I have the coordinates
and there should be some sort of landing lights.”

She
frowned at the difficulties.

“There
it is!” Seamus pointed to the left.

A
single dim spotlight seemed to be tracking them from the ground, wavering
between faint and nearly invisible, the beam appeared to be directed at them
from a handheld lamp.

Keira
followed the beckoning light.

They
hovered a few hundred meters over the thin shaft of light.

A
shadowy figure tilted the spotlight towards the ground and illuminated a
miniscule flat gray patch of gravel.

“Apparently
that's the landing pad,” Ryo shrugged.

“We
did not practice this sort of thing in flight school,” Keira grumbled.

The
patrol craft groaned and wobbled as it settled slightly askew on the small,
rough rectangle.

Seamus
passed two bright orange survival suits to his companions.

The
threesome shimmied into the tight-fitting garments in the cramped cabin. Both
Ryo and Keira spent several minutes pulling the snug hood over Seamus's head.

The
three stiff and orange-clad visitors stood uncomfortably at the hatch as Ryo
tapped at the locking mechanism.

The
door opened to an icy gust of wind.

“GOOD
MORNING!” a deep and gregarious voice boomed through the darkness. “Welcome to
South Georgia Island!”

• • •

Nearly
twelve thousand kilometers north-northeast of the dark and windswept landing
site on South Georgia Island, in a warm and secret little office at Free City
University; Lieutenant Zmuda and his two cohorts considered the many
implications of the morning News Item about the massacre on the
Billikin.

“Is this
a real story or did someone plant it in the media?” Mixion wondered.

Zmuda
frowned, “Nobody should know about this yet; the Inquisitor's Office is most
likely still going over the crime scene.”

Jasper
sighed as he read the dispatch over the Lieutenant's shoulder; “It sure seems
to put this Seamus Nelson fellow in peril.”

“Ah;”
Zmuda finally tapped in victory at the News Item, “this is Ryo Trop's work.”

He
turned to the two other CRAMP agents, “Find out everything that you can about a
ninety-seven year-old former Engineer named Mr. Seamus Nelson who currently
resides in Free City.”

Mixion
and Jasper nodded in unison.

“I
suspect,” Zmuda grimaced, “that others are doing the same thing right now.”

• • •

The
big man gleefully dished another steaming pancake onto Ryo's plate.

“Thank
you Luis, I think that will about do it for me,” the Investigator groaned as he
contemplated eating what would be his fifth serving.

Both
Keira and Seamus had a similarly bloated look as the groggy threesome sat
around the breakfast table in the cluttered white cottage on the wind-blown
bluff.

Their
host gazed attentively at his guests.

“It's
just that I haven't seen anyone for over five months,” Luis added gloomily, “at
least no one alive.”

Keira
frowned, “You're all alone on South Georgia Island?”

Luis
nodded, “Yes. It's just me and Moresby who tend to matters during the off
season at New Grytviken.”

“Moresby?”
Seamus asked.

“He's
the ancient gray tabby cat that the previous Harbor Master left behind when I
took up the job twelve years ago.”

Ryo
nodded between bites, “What exactly do you do in this lovely but thoroughly
frozen South Atlantic outpost?”

“South
Georgia Island is technically part of the Grand Eternal Fiefdom of AmerAsia, I
don't think that anyone else would want it, but it's the AmerAsian Interior
Ministry in Buenos Aires that pays the bills to keep the harbor open.”

“Open
for what?” Seamus scoffed.

Luis
beamed at the curmudgeonly old man, “I've often wondered that myself. The
original village of Grytviken was a British and Norwegian whaling port. When
that died out, it was a sparsely used way station for cruise ships destined for
the Antarctic. Now the Interior Ministry has some hopes that Cumberland Bay
could eventually be a supply port for Antarctic mineral extraction.”

“New
Grytviken?” Keira glanced around the room, “These quaint old relics aren't from
the original village?”

“Well:”
Luis hedged, “more or less. The settlement was flooded when the sea level rose
a few hundred years ago. They moved nearly everything up on the bluff and
renamed it New Grytviken.”

“Everything?”
Ryo smiled.

“Yeah;
even the old cemetery with Sir Ernest Shackleton's grave, it's still the only
real claim to fame here.”

“Speaking
of bodies,” Ryo stared up at their host, “I understand that you discovered one
a few days ago.”

Luis's
expression darkened, “Yes; the poor fellow is down in one of the boathouses.”

• • •

A
frigid squall raked merciless across the foursome.

“So!”
Ryo shouted above the roar of the wind, “how did you come upon Mr. Briggs'
body?”

Once
again in their orange survival suits, the three visitors trudged long with Luis
as they labored towards the harbor.

“One
of my duties at New Grytviken is that of the Harbor Master of Cumberland East
Bay.”

A
sudden gust of icy wind caused Seamus to wobble precariously until Luis and
Keira steadied the old man.

“Twice
a week on Tuesdays and Fridays I take a small grappler tug around the perimeter
of the bay and then through the length of the two shipping lanes.” He pressed
forward against the wind, “If I find anything floating around that could be a hazard
to navigation, I tow it to the harbor and secure it.”

“Do
you find much stuff?” Keira yelled.

He
nodded, “I found a basketball from a girl’s school in Manila a few years ago,
it's up in the cottage somewhere.”

Luis
led them down a long creaky dock, “Mostly its just driftwood logs and stray
fishing nets, a few years ago I spent days tending to a capsized speed boat
that had strayed away from the marina at Governor's Bay in New Zealand which is
over fifteen thousand kilometers away!”

“Mildly
valuable cast-offs,” Seamus smiled, “that sounds to me like space debris
salvage.”

They
stopped at the tall, waterside edge of the dock and stared at the huge mangled
silver and black cylindrical object that bobbed in the choppy water as it
pulled impatiently against the stout cables that moored it.

Their
host pointed to the battered and burned object that was at least twice the size
of his cottage, “This monstrosity was floating just outside of the bay about a
week ago.”

Seamus
studied the dented and scorched artifact, “It's the upper stage of an old Y69
rocket booster, I've seen a dozen or so, although they're usually in much
better shape in Low Earth Orbit.”

Ryo
tilted his head in confusion, “I thought that nothing could survive the inferno
of an uncontrolled plunge to Earth.”

“It
depends on a lot of factors such as the angle of re-entry and the composition
of the object,” Seamus pointed to booster, “but the most important thing is
size.”

Luis
nodded, “There's a good thirty tons of titanium, aluminum and PlastiStruct in
that thing.”

“As
interesting as this relic is,” Ryo shivered, “what does it have to do with Mr.
Nathan Briggs?”

Luis
frowned, “Tangled up in the stainless steel plumbing for the rocket engines,
fairly well protected from the heat of re-entry, I found what I thought was a
helmet and the upper half of a space suit.”

The
visitors followed him into a tidy old boathouse.

Finally
out of the frigid wind, Luis continued, “Something like that would be a great
novelty to show off to tourists: the space suit that found its way from orbit
to New Grytviken.”

They
stood shivering together around a shipping crate that was the size of a large
trunk.

Luis
lifted off the cover and Keira flinched in horror.

The
remnants of the space suit contained the charred and mutilated remains of a
man.

Seamus
whispered a Gaelic prayer, Ryo stared ashen-faced at the body and Keira spun
around and vomited.

“Gruesome;
I know,” Luis solemnly noted, “but at least the cold keeps the smell down.”

After
several minutes of reflection over the corpse, Ryo asked the obvious question,
“How did you discover that this was Nate Briggs?”

“I
planned to give the poor bloke a proper burial in the cemetery during the
summer when the ground finally thaws out. I felt that it was only right to put
his given name on the grave marker,” Luis gently pulled the glove away from the
body's hand, “so I slid his fingertip over a payment interface for a good half
an hour until it finally produced his name.”

Keira
dry heaved and covered her eyes at the sight of the distorted and blackened
hand.

“When
I contacted the Free City Bureau of Records to register the death, they told me
that an Investigator from the Inquisitor's Office was on the way.”

“Thank
you for that, Luis.” Ryo glanced up at Keira and pointed to the door. “You may
want to wait outside, sweetheart.”

She
nodded in relief and hurried away.

“In a
few minutes I'd like for you to pack Mr. Briggs for transport and we will take
his remains back to the Coroner's Office in Free City.”

Ryo gingerly
unfastened the helmet and, with the skills of an Investigator who had seen
hundreds of bodies, he carefully studied the back of Nate Briggs' neck.

Ryo
turned to Seamus, “Would you say that we saw this type of wound on Captain
Takahashi?”

The
old man winced, “Yes.”

The
Investigator lingered over the corpse for a time before finally returning the
cover to the shipping crate.

He
stared at Seamus with a look of consternation; “Let's just hope that I don't
find the same sort of trauma on your corpse in the next few days.”