The Commonwealth Saga 2-Book Bundle (44 page)

The café was utterly silent as Alessandra Baron’s overawed voice announced the rise of the spaceplanes. Adam realized he was licking his upper lip in anticipation, and hurriedly stopped. The images shifted from the smoldering land around the complex force field dome to a clean graphic of the assembly platform’s orbit around the planet. In conjunction with Baron’s now-somber voice they illustrated the impending destruction. Figures in the corner of the screen counted down. They almost matched the timer in Adam’s virtual visual.

Second Chance
had at most another four minutes. He took a quick look around the rapt faces of the other customers, seeing horror and fascination in equal amounts. For once he didn’t feel any guilt at what he’d done. There were no innocents in the assembly platform, no children devoid of memorycells. Not this time. This time it would be right.

Someone working for Baron’s show managed to access the microsat geosurvey observation swarm around Anshun. Thousands of tiny solid-state sensors along the equatorial orbit shifted their alignment from the minerals buried far below to one specific speck of light. The assembly platform swam into focus at the center of the screen, a giant blue-gray sphere of malmetal. Its featureless symmetry gave it a strangely organic appearance, Adam felt.

Dark lines appeared on the surface, illustrating long petallike shapes. Adam blinked, leaning forward. They hadn’t been there a second before, he was sure. Then long, slim fantails of snow-white gas were shooting out from the spherical surface as the dark lines split open. Sunlight poured into the assembly platform, erasing the weak glow of emergency lighting; the starship’s incomplete superstructure gleamed silver-white at the center of an expanding cloud of vapor.

“No way,” Adam groaned. His timer read a hundred fifty seconds until impact.

Two plasma rockets ignited, wiping out the image in a white nova of super-energized particles. Both exhaust plumes blasted straight through the shell of folded malmetal, sending twin spears of light stabbing over a hundred kilometers down toward the planetary surface. Some of the plasma plume rebounded off the surviving structure, billowing backward around the starship and its swath of girders. Insulation blankets and cables lashed around as they dissolved back into their component atoms, while support girders melted away into pliable strings that stretched like hot cheese as the starship started to move away from the gateway. Component cargo pods ignited, shooting out from the stellar inferno like lurid orange comets, trailing a fluorescent haze behind them as their contents blazed.

The
Second Chance
began to accelerate away. Her huge body wavered at first as the programs and pilot—Adam wondered whether it was Kime himself—analyzed the nonsymmetric mass distribution along the fuselage. As soon as they’d mastered that, the rockets were vectored to compensate, and the starship held steady as she built velocity, heading straight up from the planet. Behind her, there was a last violent contortion amid the seething molten wreckage as the force field protecting the gateway finally ruptured. Atmospheric gas spewed out into the void, bringing with it a host of fragments from the ruined assessment room. The jet’s vigor was reduced for a few seconds as something pushed its way along the wormhole. Then like a cork from a bottle, a small force field globe burst through; it glimmered amid the debris storm as it was propelled onward by the aggressive blast of air from the gateway behind. The dark, heavy object within the sparkling bubble spun helplessly around and around as it soared away through space. Behind it, the gush of atmosphere was reduced once again. A second golden orb came through, tumbling off into the void after the first.

By now the
Second Chance
was twenty-five kilometers away, a dazzling elongated star ascending up toward the bright constellations. The first spaceplane leaped into view. Its tremendous closing velocity meant that there was only the briefest glimpse on the screen—a streamlined silver-gray delta shape—before it slammed into the cooling ruins of the assembly platform. The explosion that erupted was indistinguishable from a small nuclear blast. As the sphere of incandescent atoms began to darken, it suddenly renewed itself as the second spaceplane pierced its heart.

A hundred kilometers above, the
Second Chance
was still accelerating out toward the stars.

ELEVEN

Hoshe had thought that the flood of data would slow down after the first couple of days. Now, a week on from his initial request, he knew better. For shadowy creatures who lived outside society’s boundaries, there was an awful lot of information stored on the so-called big-time crime syndicates. On Oaktier, there were three main such organizations recognized by the police: the Johasie family, an old-fashioned mafia-style network of related hoodlums, but with enough brains and lawyers to disconnect the bosses from all the activities of their street-level soldiers; Foral Ltd., a company whose board seemed to have diversified down into crime, both financial and street; and Area 37, the smartest and most elusive, whose murky empire was bolstered by legitimate businesses and, apparently, political connections. They were based in Darklake City, and for that reason alone Hoshe favored them as the most likely suspects to murder Shaheef and Cotal. It was simple geography. Neither of the lovers had traveled outside Darklake for weeks before they disappeared. If they had accidentally stumbled on something that required their removal, then it was Area 37 who probably had the kind of resources and connections to make it happen. But what could two innocent civilians walk into that required a response of that magnitude?

The official files on organized crime syndicates Hoshe had retrieved from the Attorney in Chief’s office contained all the previous investigations, plus the alarmingly unsuccessful court cases they resulted in. Of those, reports filed by undercover operatives and informants were the most useful. The Attorney’s office knew the major and minor players, and had a general idea of what they were up to most of the time; proving anything legally was the perennial problem.

Proven or not, the files covering suspected events forty years ago were of little use. There simply weren’t any killing sprees, or violent clashes with rivals, or even big heists. It was just a steady drip feed of money from clubs, gambling, chemical and digital narcotics, prostitution, bank scams, and dubious development contracts.

Finished with the official files, he started to access the media’s collective knowledge of Area 37. It was more gossipy, although some of the investigative reporters certainly seemed to know their subject. But again, there was no mention of a serious crime back then. Police reports for that year and the five subsequent ones bore no evidence of any major crime that had happened or might have required years of preparation.

Halfway through the morning, along with most of the Commonwealth, he’d stopped work to watch the incredible assault on the starship. Even the Chief Investigator had sat back to stare at the images playing on her desktop screen. Once the
Second Chance
had reached safety the weight of waiting data had slowly drawn him back to his task, although colleagues from around the metropolitan police headquarters building kept dropping in to ask him if he’d seen it and what he thought. They seemed more interested in hearing Paula’s opinion, even though she never gave one. By late afternoon, he was once more completely immersed in the dreary details of the criminal underworld. The constant input from both virtual visual displays and reading the screens on his desk was giving him headaches. When he reached for his coffee mug, he found only the cold dregs of the last batch.

“Get some more,” he muttered.

Paula didn’t even look up from her screen as he went to the door. They’d been given an office on the fifth floor, a pleasant enough room with a broad window and furniture that wasn’t too old. The desktop arrays were all top range equipment, with screens and portals to match. The coffeemaker, however, was down the corridor.

“Wait,” Paula said as he was almost through the door. “Secure call coming in.”

It was Qatux. They put it on the large wall-mounted portal, and Hoshe sat down just as the big alien’s image came up. Hoshe frowned his concern at the Raiel’s appearance. Qatux could barely hold his head up to look at the camera. Shivers ran along his body and tentacle-limbs, as if he were coughing silently.

“I have lived her life,” Qatux whispered. “How you humans survive so much experience is something I shall never understand. To do so much and react to it all in the way you do is as much a curse as a blessing. You never take time to digest and appreciate what happens to you.”

“It’s what we are,” Paula told him. “And how are you? Did the memories cause you any trouble?”

“It was difficult. I had not expected it to be so. I see now, and I see then. I am Tara more than I have been any human before. That frightens me as much as it delights. I have never been frightened before.”

“Memories will always fade, that is their nature. You will know who you are.”

“They fade for you. For me, I am not so sure. There is so much I wish to concentrate on and remember. I will not let go of her easily.”

Paula leaned forward in her seat. “So you can access all of her life?”

“Yes. Yes, I know her that well. So many colors, so many sounds; and
feelings
, what feelings she had. Tara cried at the sight of a dawn one day, it was so beautiful, out in the desert where light played across the rock and sky, and every second brought a new hue to the rumpled sandy ground. I feel her tears now, small delicate traces across my skin, blurring the image.”

“Have you looked for what I asked? Did she have any enemies, anyone who hated her?”

The Raiel’s head swung slowly from side to side in mournful denial, its tentacle-limbs following the motion discordantly. “No. To you, I think, she would be bland and insipid, for her life is not as fast and intent as yours. But Tara is a gentle person, she loves life and hates pain and suffering in others. The worst she ever thought of any person was irritation and disappointment. Her most serious crime was selfishness, for she cheated on several partners; she was unable to resist the pleasure and excitement which such liaisons brought her. That does not make her a bad person.”

“How badly did those cheated partners react?”

“Some wept. Some raged. Others didn’t care. She made her peace with all of them. Nobody she ever knew wanted to kill her. Of this I am certain.”

“Damn!” Paula’s lips compressed into an angry grimace. “There’s nobody?”

“No. She is no saint, but to incite enough hatred in someone to kill her … I cannot see that, not through her eyes.”

“Thank you, Qatux. I am sorry this has been so tough for you. I appreciate what you’ve done.”

“It is not trouble. I love humans, all humans. I often think that perhaps I was born into the wrong species.”

“You’re fine just the way you are.”

“Will you bring me more memories, Paula? I purchase many from contacts in your unisphere, but none are from secure stores, none are as complete as those you bring for me, none have the richness of human existence, the trueness that I cherish.”

“We’ll see. Maybe I’ll visit again.”

“Thank you. And one day perhaps you will bring your own memory? I am sure you must be the greatest human I know.”

“That’s very flattering, Qatux. I’ll bear it in mind.” She waited until the image vanished before wrinkling up her nose at the gray screen.

“Not a crime of passion, then,” Hoshe said.

Paula continued to stare at the blank screen. “Doesn’t look like it.”

“How reliable is Qatux?”

“Very. If he couldn’t see anyone, then you and I certainly wouldn’t if we reviewed the recording. The only possibility from that angle is if Shaheef annoyed someone extremely dangerous, a psychotic who is capable of concealing their true emotional reaction. But I have to admit, that’s very remote.”

“What about a serial killer? Oaktier hasn’t got one on record, but there could be one who spreads his victims around the Commonwealth.”

“Again: it’s possible. If it is, they’re not working to any recognizable pattern. That’s the first thing my Directorate tends to look for in apparently motiveless killings. The array in Paris couldn’t find any connection to any of the known serials we have files on.” She smiled without humor and looked up at him. “So how are we doing on the crime syndicate theory?”

“Not good. I can’t find any important criminal event around that time, confirmed or rumored. My best guess would be that they walked into a random gangland slaying, and the rest is just a cover-up.”

“Yes, that works. But it leaves us devoid of evidence.”

“There’s still a load of files I haven’t reviewed yet.”

“You’ve been running analyzers through the primary files for a week; if there was anything helpful or relevant to us in them you should have found it by now. I’m sure you know I don’t like to give up on a case with so many suspicious circumstances, but we really are running out of plausible avenues of exploration.” She pulled the clip out from the back of her hair and tidied it up. “I’ll have to give this some thought.”

It was the first time he’d heard the Chief Investigator speculate on defeat, as such it was rather shocking. “Well how many motives can there be? It has to be a random killing. We know it wasn’t personal, or corporate, or political, or even financial, you said yourself she’s better off now. It’s not something we’re ever going to track down, because it doesn’t exist in any file or memory.” He broke off. Paula was giving him a very intent stare. Slowly a smile spread across her face. Hoshe really wished it weren’t directed at him, it was animal-predatory.

“Damn,” she murmured in admiration. “That is clever, isn’t it? But then he is smart, isn’t he, we’ve seen that ourselves. Smart and determined.”

“Who is?”

Her smile became a taunt. “I have never, ever encountered that as a motive before. Damn!”

“What? You know who it is?”

“Don’t you, Detective?”

“Oh, come on! Who?”

“It’s all down to the timing. He didn’t kill her off to save himself money, that’s far too much the classic scenario. We would have spotted that right off. He did it so he’d be able to make money for both of them. She profits financially from her killing as much as he.”

“Who?”

“Morton.”

“He can’t have!” Hoshe exclaimed. “He was the one who alerted us in the first place.”

“That means nothing. This was meticulously thought out. He’s not going to have kept the memory. Memory is evidence. He’d get that wiped right away.”

“Son of a bitch. Are you sure?”

“I am now.” Her eyes were closed as she hurriedly reviewed the scenario. “It fits. Hindsight is a wonderful trait.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We need evidence. There will be two types: physical and financial. I’ll tackle company records.”

“Okay. What’s the physical evidence?”

“I want you to find the bodies.”

It had been a bad day at the office. When he arrived that morning, Morton had expected the preliminary central district road and water supply infrastructure contract for Puimro’s new capital to be ready for signature certification. Gansu had underbid considerably at his insistence; a loss at this stage didn’t matter, this was the key, placing them ready for a whole sequence of follow-on contracts on that lovely, promising new world. With that foothold, Gansu could build up its local operation over the next two decades until it was as big as the Oaktier parent company. Their true expansion to Intersolar giant status would have begun.

But the development company lawyers on Puimro were suspicious, believing that Gansu’s low-cost delivery would be achieved through cost cutting on materials and construction. They wanted quality guarantees written in, as well as proscriptions against “excessive profits.” All very reasonable, but why the hell didn’t they mention all this two months ago during the preliminary round of negotiations? Morton had found himself swearing at his own corporate lawyers and accountants as the bureaucratic tangle developed throughout the day. It hadn’t been resolved when he left the office late, stomping off to his car in a foul mood. He left behind a team of Gansu lawyers and contract experts huddled in a conference room, ready to work through the night in an attempt to resolve the issues and questions raised by their counterpart team on Puimro. New meetings were scheduled for next week. The signature certificate wouldn’t come through for at least another ten days now.

Fucking civil servants, always stand in the way of progress.

The butler greeted him at the lift door opening the vestibule, grappling with the suit jacket that was flung at him. Morton went into the living room, squinting against the beautiful evening sunlight that was shining straight across the roof garden and pool. He saw Mellanie sitting on one of the sunloungers, head in her hands, shoulders slumped.

Oh, Christ, not this as well, not now.
He was scowling at her as her head came up. She gave him a tentative smile and hurried inside.

“Sir.” The butler had brought his sparkling gin.

“Thanks.” He took the glass off the silver tray.

Mellanie, he saw now she was out of the sun’s rich glare, had been crying. “What’s the matter?” It was almost rhetorical; he wasn’t interested.

She pushed up against him, resting her head on his chest. “I went to practice this morning,” she said, her voice muffled. “The coach said I hadn’t been making enough effort, that my hours were too low. He said I didn’t have the right level of commitment anymore.”

“Ah.” Morton felt like saying:
Is that all?
These days, the only sports anyone was interested in were team events. With Commonwealth geneticists able to build super athletes, individual competition was essentially pointless, a contest between laboratories and clinics. But teamwork, that was different, that was the temple of the last natural trait: skill. In games like football, baseball, hockey, and cricket the combined talent of the team was a synergy that fans could throw themselves behind with complete devotion. He’d always thought diving was the rather desperate end of the special-interest spectrum, its importance artificially inflated by sportswear companies and media channels to drum up sales. So what he actually said was: “He’s an asshole. Don’t worry about it.”

She started crying. “I’ve been dropped.”

“What?”