A Night Without Stars (10 page)

“Oh, for— Get me what you can now, and call the chief sheriff's office. I want their paperwork here by tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Chaing looked around. “We're going to need a command office. This is too small.”

“Building management has the allocation forms,” Lurvri said. “That's on the second floor.”

“Yaki promised me more people.”

“Good!”

Chaing glanced out of the office's window. At the far end of the records hall aisle, jail-style metal bars protected the restricted files section. “I want another file,” he told the clerk. “An Eliter called Corilla. She's an active informant, handled by the political division.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Lurvri was giving him a curious look. “Problem?”

“I just want to know how reliable she is, that's all.”

“Right.” Lurvri lowered his head to study the spread of paper on the table, but not quickly enough to hide the knowing smile elevating his lips.

Chaing let it go.

Within minutes the clerks had checked the Rolodexes and started bringing the files. Chaing was surprised by the number of missing persons—more than twenty-five a year from the city alone. The county statistics were a lot higher. And this in a world where someone vanishing was always a cause for concern. Then starting three years ago, the numbers had risen. “Does no one ever check these?” he demanded.

“Statistics aren't terribly accurate predictors,” Lurvri said with a shrug.

“They're an ideal way to monitor possible nest activity.” He forced himself not to voice any more criticism in front of the clerks; no doubt a report of everything he said would be quietly delivered to Colonel Kukaida.

He was making notes on the locations people had gone missing from when Jenifa arrived, bursting through the index office door. She was out of breath, sweat beading on her face, blue cord jacket flapping open.

“What—?” began Chaing. For an undercover agent to break cover and turn up at the PSR office went against every operational rule.

“Something's happening,” she said urgently. “I had to come.”

Chaing glanced at the clerks, who were watching attentively. He took Jenifa's arm and hustled her out of the office into the echoing cavern of the records hall. Lurvri followed, making sure no one else was within earshot.

“Did anyone see you come here?” Chaing asked.

“I was careful. And I used the Warral Street entrance at the back of the store.”

“Okay, then. What's happened?”

“There were people in the Cannes Club tonight, a group of them. I marked five of them, maybe more.” Her hand juddered along her sweaty forehead. “They were a team, I could see it. Really professional. They sat at three tables, which gave them full coverage of the club floor, ordered one drink, and didn't drink it. They just watched the customers.”

“An observer team?”

“Yes, but they're not PSR. Caden talked to them. It was casual, like he was checking that they were having a good time, but that wasn't it. He knew them and they knew him.”

Chaing felt his throat muscles tighten. “Fallers?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Uracus! How many of them are in this nest?”

“I don't know. But I managed to get some photos.”

“That was risky.” But even as he said it, he couldn't help admiring her.
If only everyone in the PSR had her guts and initiative.

“I only got shots of two of them,” she said regretfully. “They left before I could get them all. I had to be careful they didn't notice me. But, Chaing, they were following someone. A man. I've seen him in the Cannes Club before. He was by himself. Came in early, had a couple of drinks up near the stage, watched the girls for a few routines, then left. They went with him. Just like we'd do it—with two in front and three following. Next thing I know, Caden's gone, too.”

“Who was the target?”

“I don't know. He was well dressed, reasonable clothes, but nothing too flashy. No one prominent.”

“You think they were waiting for him?”

“Yes, but it's weird. If all they need is a human for food or eggsumption, Caden can find them girls that no one cares about, so why risk a man who can fight back? And he must have a job; his office or workplace will notice him missing. It'll be reported.”

“Yeah, that doesn't make a lot of sense.” He was unnerved by the idea of Fallers having teams the same way the PSR had. “We need to know who this man was, why he was important to them. I want you to work with the sketch artist, work up a likeness for me. Maybe Colonel Kukaida will recognize him.”

Jenifa grinned wryly and held up a roll of film. “I can do you one better than a sketch. I got a shot of him.”

It was nine o'clock; most of the PSR office had gone home, leaving a small night shift working until breakfast. There was only one technician left in the photographic lab. Chaing took the roll of film there in person, and even went into the darkroom with him to watch it being developed. That way it was done quickly.

He stared at the glossy paper in the chemical tanks as the images slowly formed, willing the shadowy outlines to darken quicker. The dull crimson light from the solitary bulb overhead made the pictures curiously intense.

“I know him,” Chaing exclaimed as he pulled the first sheet from the liquid. “That was the driver from this afternoon, the one who helped Caden take Noriah to Xander Manor.”

Jenifa pulled another sheet out. “What about this one? He's the other watcher I snapped.”

“No.”

She pulled out the last photo, letting the reeking chemicals drip back into the tank. “This one? He's the one they followed out of the club, the target.”

Chaing studied the man, almost disappointed by how ordinary he appeared—middle-aged, ebony skin with jowls just beginning. He was expecting some kind of feature that would make him understand why the Fallers wanted him. “No,” he said in frustration. “I want blowups of all three,” he told the photographic technician. “Get them up to my office as fast as you can.”

Then, with Jenifa behind him, he knocked again on Colonel Kukaida's door, wishing he didn't feel so sheepish.

“Come.”

Only the photographs on the white desk were different. Kukaida hadn't moved, and the same clerks hovered in attendance.

“Sorry to bother you, Colonel,” Chaing said, and held up the still-wet photograph of the Fallers' target, “but I was wondering if you know this man?”

Colonel Kukaida carefully cleared a space on her desk and studied the photo. Her glasses magnified the twitch of her eyebrows. “I certainly do, Captain Chaing. This is comrade Deneriov.”

The name meant nothing to Chaing. “Who is he?”

“Deneriov is the general manager of the Opole Rocketry Plant.”

“Crudding Uracus!” He stared openmouthed at an equally apprehensive Jenifa. “They don't want food. They're after the factory!”

Chaing caught Jenifa giving his office a mildly disappointed appraisal as they hurried in. It made him realize just how small and shabby the room was for an officer of his rank—not that status or comfort should bother a PSR officer. The brick walls were painted a depressing gray-green. One of them had a big pin board with a map of the city, and various photos of suspects from Chaing's five current operations. A lone high window looked out into the central courtyard, so even in daylight there was nothing to see but more walls with narrow barred windows. His desk was at an angle across a corner, while Lurvri's was crammed into the other side. None of the furniture matched, and one wall was lined with filing cabinets from different eras—all a disjointed legacy of careers that had been played out and absorbed by the bleak room.

Major Sorrell, the duty officer, was in there, waiting with Lurvri.

“We need the assault squad,” Chaing said immediately. “We have to be ready to storm Xander Manor tonight.”

“I can put them on standby for you,” Sorrell said, “but it's going to take a real emergency to authorize deployment.”

“A real emergency? How about Fallers sabotaging the Rocketry Plant?”

“Not a chance. There's no way a Faller could get past perimeter security. Our officers supervise the guards, and blood tests are compulsory for anyone going in. No exceptions.”

“The Fallers have captured comrade Deneriov, the manager.”

Sorrell gave him a suspicious look. “Have you confirmed that?”

The Bakelite phone on Chaing's desk started ringing, its red priority light flashing on the side.

“Corporal Jenifa saw him being followed by five suspected Fallers earlier this evening,” he told Sorrell.

“I need positive confirmation.”

Exasperated, Chaing picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Help me,” a frightened female voice said.

“What? Who is this?”

“It's me, Corilla. I need help.”

Chaing's back stiffened in surprise. “What is it? What's happened?”

“They're here,” she whispered. “They're at the campus looking for me.”

“Who are?”

Lurvri was frowning hard at him, wanting an explanation. Chaing waved him away.

“I don't know. There's three of them. They asked a friend about me. He warned me. I'm frightened. And Chaing, they're using links to communicate with one another. We've picked up the transmissions.”

“So they're Eliters?”

“No. Their links are encrypted. It's something new, something different. We can't crack it.”

Chaing put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to Sorrell. “If Fallers eggsume an Eliter, do they have the same abilities?”

Sorrell gave him a blank stare. “I've no idea. I've never heard of it.”

“They duplicate everything else,” Lurvri said.

“Except the human brain,” Jenifa said. “Fallers have our organs, but their own neural structure.”

Chaing wanted the universe to slow down for a minute so he could make sense of it. There was too much happening. “Corilla?”

“Yes.”

“I'm going to bring you in. Where are you?”

“I'm in a phone box on Rence Street.”

Chaing studied the map. “That's too close to the university. Get out of there. Now. I'll pick you up at the corner of Sedto Street and Frikal Alley in fifteen minutes. All right?”

“Just hurry. Please!”

The phone went dead.

“Who was that?” Sorrell demanded.

“An asset. She's in danger from Fallers.”

“Is this the same case?”

“I believe so, yes. Sir, this just got a whole lot bigger. We need to call in Director Yaki.”

“Yes.” Sorrell nodded slowly. “Yes, I think we do.”

“I'm going to collect my asset. Lurvri, I want you at Deneriov's home. Confirm if he got back there tonight. Call it in as soon as you know anything.”

Lurvri shot a glance at Sorrell. “Yes, chief.”

“I'll come with you,” Jenifa said.

Chaing's automatic protest died before he could voice it. She looked so determined. “Right.” He went over to the wall safe and took out a ten-millimeter pistol, along with a case of hollow-tip bullets—the same kind the PSR assault squad used in their carbines. He handed it to her. “Here. You might need this.”

Chaing took a car from the underground garage, ignoring the transport manager's plea to sign for it.

“No time,” he barked, snatching the keys from a hook in the woman's cubicle.

The Cubar was a four-door sedan built at the Adice Motor Industry factory. Its acceleration was notoriously sluggish, but the engine was reliable even in cold weather, and the squat metal bodywork sturdy enough to survive modest collisions. The government bought fleets of them.

It was raining when they emerged out onto Broadstreet—a thin drizzle that created a lot of spray and degraded the tires' grip. Chaing switched on the sirens and their blue flashing lights, driving as hard as he dared, forcing tuk-tuks out of his way. At least the weather had banished most of the city's cyclists.

“How could they know about her?” Jenifa asked, hands gripping the passenger seat as the Cubar slalomed across the road.

“I don't know. Maybe she asked the wrong person about Valentin Murin, or Xander Manor.”

She winced as he spun the wheel, dodging a couple crossing the street. “I suppose. But that implies they're very well organized.”

“Yeah, it does. But they've been here for three years, and they're planning to sabotage or destroy the Rocketry Plant. You have to be organized to accomplish that.”

“They're organized, all right. Remember Kassell? They don't show any mercy, either.”

“I know.” The Kassell atrocity had been the PSR's lowest point. Sixty years ago, a nest of Fallers had managed to drive three trucks packed with explosives into the regiment's barracks for the Fireyear Day celebration ball. More than three hundred troops and support staff had died that day.

“So if they'd do that to troopers, what are they going to do to a factory that makes rocket engines for the Silver Sword?” she mused.

“What are you saying?”

“The Xander Manor nest has been established for three years that we know of. How much explosive can they put together in that time?”

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Giu!”

They were four blocks out from Sedto Street when Chaing killed the lights and siren.

“Let me out,” Jenifa said. “I'll cover you.”

It must have been her appearance, small and vulnerable looking; his immediate instinct was to protest. But she was a fully trained and qualified PSR officer. In fact, she was probably a lot more streetwise than him.

He braked at the top of Sedto Street and she hurried out, zipping her blue cord jacket against the miserable rain.