A Night Without Stars (32 page)

Perrick directed a neat implacable smile at him. “No, you don't go see Billop. Not now. Not ever. We've been listening to the sheriffs and the PSR on the radio. You are way too hot, my friend—that's if you're even human. We don't need dangerous liabilities like you fouling our territory.”

“Of course I'm crudding human! Lukan, tell them!”

Lukan raised his hands in a sorrowful gesture. “I'm just the driver.”

“You're crudding kidding,” Florian cried in outrage. He turned to Perrick. “I need my money.” Teal picked up on his anger and barked.

“What money is that?” Perrick asked, feigning curiosity.

“My money! Seven years I've been trapping waltans for you. I want my money. It's mine!”

“You should go to the sheriffs, then. Put a complaint in.”

All of them laughed at that.

“Those are my waltans,” Florian shouted. He started toward the man carrying the duffel bag, ready to snatch back what was rightfully his.

“Don't!” Lukan warned.

The third man took two quick steps forward and punched Florian hard in the gut. He doubled up as the breath was slammed out of him and toppled onto the hard stone floor. Essie wailed. Teal barked and charged forward, snarling.

“Crudding dog!”

Teal leapt, jaws closing on the arm of the man with the duffel bag.

Medical alerts sprang up in Florian's exovision. He couldn't get enough oxygen, and his heart was doing its panicked flutter again. Concentrating was hard. There was a lot of angry shouting. Teal's snarls.

A pistol shot rang out. Incredibly loud.

And Teal was lying on the ground, blood pouring from the huge hole in his neck.

Florian yelled out in anguish.

Perrick swung his pistol around to point it directly at Florian's head. “Faller bastard.”

“Imminent threat identified,” Florian's u-shadow declared. “Suggest immediate neutralization.” More displays slipped up into his exovision as the defense bracelet armed itself. Target circles captured all four men, shrinking around them like colored shadows.

“Do it!” Florian wheezed.

Four slim, dazzling blue-white lines ripped out from the bracelet, stabbing the men. A ferocious bang accompanied the discharge. And all four of them were flying backward through the air as if they'd been struck by a sledgehammer.

“Crudding Uracus,” Florian whimpered. The silence in the warehouse was as shocking as the beams' thunder had been a second ago. Then Essie started wailing at the top of her lungs, tears flooding down her cheeks.

Florian patted the smoldering holes in his shirt cuff as new files popped up in his exovision, explaining the bracelet stun pulse function.

Mostly harmless, the summary read. Targets usually recover after a few minutes. Not recommended for targets with a weak heart.

Lukan was twitching where he lay, so he was still alive. Perrick and the man with the duffel bag were unconscious, but groaning as if having nightmares. The third man was completely inert.

Florian staggered over to Essie and picked her up, hugging her close. “It's over,” he soothed. “It's over, sweetheart. Daddy promises. It's all over. Only good things are going to happen now.”

She went rigid in his hold. “Leave, Dada,” she said in a clear voice. “Bad people will come. Always more bad people.” Then she slumped down lethargically and started trembling.

“Oh, great Giu, help me,” Florian moaned. He looked at Teal's body for a while, holding back the anger and tears, then picked up his backpack and headed for the door.

It was seven years since Florian had been in the Gates district. As dawn washed its narrow crooked streets in a pastel light, he found the old memory triggers oddly reassuring. Nothing had changed. The sweets shop his mother used to take him and Lurji to. The secondhand clothes store. TollGate, a long bent lane where he and Lurji fled a gang of lads who'd shouted out “Eliters!” and run at them with clubs. Six Bells pub where, age thirteen and goaded by his brother, he'd tried to buy a beer, only to be thrown out by the jeering barmaid; Lurji had laughed and taunted him the whole way home.

Most of all, he was reassured by the links. The Gates was full of link pings, buzzing around him like invisible bees as Eliters called to one another with address codes, then began talking. Encrypted files filled the electromagnetic spectrum. The general band was full of data packets with the Warrior Angel's icon.

It was music to his mind.
I'm home.

And the broad green-painted door halfway along MistleGate—Aunt Terannia's club. The door was smaller than memory had it. Drab paint, old and scuffed.

He stood in front of it for a long moment. Then knocked. Nothing. The club had probably only shut a couple of hours ago.

Knocked again, more forcefully this time.

Heavy bolts thudded back, and the door swung open. Aunt Terannia stood there—a formidable woman in her nineties, dyed-ebony hair disheveled, wrapped in a threadbare burgundy toweling robe, blinking in amazement. “Florian? Oh, Uracus, it
is
you. Come in, my boy, come in.”

To his absolute horror, he burst into tears.

The Opole General Hospital was a nine-story gray stone building on the edge of the Jaminth district, built more than four hundred years ago. It was designed to provide the comfortable Void-era middle classes with individual rooms where they could be treated privately, and the management board had struggled to adapt it for the requirements of modern medicine and the massive post-Transition political shift of the state providing equal medical treatment for all. But it persevered through funding crises and staff shortages, giving local citizens a basic medical safety net.

Ambulances delivered urgent cases to the Emergency Treatment Center, a newly built brick annex at the back. To get to it, you had to turn off Roturan Road, which ran along the front of the hospital, and down Vilgor Alley—a narrow backstreet that had a sharp turn at the end, which was difficult for ordinary vans let alone anything as big as an ambulance.

When Chaing's Cubar pulled up outside the hospital late in the afternoon, his PSR driver didn't even have the option of turning down into Vilgor Alley; it was blocked off by three sheriff patrol cars. He and Jenifa got out quickly and barged through the cluster of reporters outside the main entrance. They were both wearing their PSR uniforms, which quashed any complaints before they were made.

The Emergency Treatment Center was divided into three wards. The sheriffs had taken over one of them, with two officers standing guard outside the door. They exchanged a glance as Chaing advanced on them and reluctantly let him past unchallenged.

Inside, the long ward was lined with assessment bays that could be curtained off. Most of the curtains were open, showing several injured sheriffs on the trolleys. Arms were in slings. Foreheads were grazed and gashed, wrapped crudely in bandages. Pressure dressings were bound over abdominal wounds. One had badly bloodied torn trousers, her foot at an impossible angle. The ward's harried doctors and nurses were treating the casualties, conferring with a couple of surgeons.

More sheriffs milled about in the center of the ward, looking angry and anxious—wanting to help and not wanting to get in the way.

“Where is he?” Chaing asked the first one.

The sheriff pointed along the ward, scowling. “We should have just left the piece of shit in the wreck.”

“No, comrade,” Jenifa said levelly. “You shouldn't. He's ours.”

That earned her plenty of animosity from the other sheriffs.

“You did a good job catching him,” Chaing said.

“Yeah? Five of our patrol cars got smashed up in the chase before we rammed that bastard off the road. It's a crudding miracle nobody was killed.”

“The PSR appreciates what you did, comrade.” Chaing carried on down to the main trauma suite. It was a bigger area than the assessment bays, with solid walls and double doors big enough to wheel surgical trolleys in and out. Three armed sheriffs stood outside. He ignored them, pushed the doors open, and strode in.

Two doctors and three nurses were in attendance. Chaing glanced at the man on the trolley. There were a lot of grazes and facial bruising, but he didn't even have to compare what he was seeing with the file photo: It was Lukan. His clothes had been cut away, allowing bandages to be applied to both legs; blood was already soaking through them. One long arm was in a splint. His wrist was crushed, wrapped in a bloody dressing. A doctor was stitching up gashes on his torso.

“Get out,” Chaing ordered.

“But—”

“OUT!”

They went, cowed and sullen. Jenifa held the doors open for them.

“Don't let anyone in,” Chaing told her. Although he was more concerned that she wouldn't be in the room when he began. He didn't want a repeat of what she'd done to Joffler.

She nodded and went out to stand guard.

Chaing studied Lukan for a moment. The driver was barely conscious. An intravenous drip of amanarnik had been set up, feeding the drug into his good arm to banish the pain. There was a supply regulator tap underneath the bag. Chaing turned it off.

One of the cupboards contained the trauma suite's supply of bandages. He took out several and wound them around Lukan's arms, binding him securely to the trolley. Once he'd finished that, he opened the man's mouth and began feeding a bandage in.

As the drug wore off and the pain returned, Lukan began to moan. His awareness came back slowly. Head turning weakly from side to side. Eyes blinking into focus. His moans grew louder, confused as he realized his mouth was full of bandage. He frowned up at Chaing and tried to lift his arms. Another muffled protest emerged when he found he couldn't move.

Chaing stared down at him. “You know, I've often heard my colleagues claim that the worst possible thing that could happen to anyone is waking up to find themselves in a PSR basement, strapped down on an interrogation bench, with one of our professional torturers standing over them, lighting his blowtorch.”

Lukan strained against the bonds, trying to shout, the cords in his neck standing out in sharp relief. The wad of bandage crammed into his mouth prevented anything but a frantic mewling.

Chaing held up a scalpel in his good hand. Lukan froze, mesmerized by the blade. Chaing began to carefully cut along the bandages around Lukan's leg, exposing the badly damaged flesh. “Personally, I disagree,” Chaing said. “I think the worst thing that could happen would be if you woke up, strapped to a trolley—much like this one, in fact—with an
amateur
torturer standing over you. What do you think?”

Director Yaki had assigned Chaing to a big operations room on the third floor of the PSR's Opole office. It had three long barred windows along one brick wall, and with typical PSR thoroughness the glass was misted to prevent the minute chance of anyone looking in. Metal desks for the investigators were arranged in a long row, each with two telephones; the secretaries' typing tables were smaller, and lined up behind them. Bulletin boards occupied the wall behind the chief investigator's desk, which was the biggest in the room, and made of wood.

So far the boards had a standard street map of the city, and several photos arranged in a pyramid with Billop at the top, and his suspected senior lieutenants below. There were two further photos, one of Florian, and one of Lukan, over which someone had scrawled
GOTCHA
in red felt tip.

Chaing resisted a grin at that when he and Jenifa walked in that evening. He'd been appointed ten PSR investigators. Three records division clerks stood ready, with direct lines down to their basement offices to summon up whatever files the investigators wanted. Captain Franzil from the PSR assault squad had also been given a desk; Chaing and Yaki had agreed that the assault squad should be on standby throughout the investigation—and this time he didn't need senior officer authorization before deploying them. Even the transport pool was represented by a manager.

The only person not in a PSR uniform was Nathalie Guyot, a senior detective on secondment from the city sheriff's office who ran their gang investigation bureau. Yaki had brought her in as liaison; apparently no one knew more about Opole's gangs than she.

When it came to running a case, Chaing couldn't ask for a better support team. The only person missing was Lurvri.
Damn, he would have relished working a case like this.

Yaki was waiting for him. “You have the floor,” she told him quietly. “I'll keep the county commander off your back for now, but given the scale this is running at, we're going to need results. Stonal won't take any responsibility for this.”

“Understood,” Chaing told her, and he turned to face the room. “We have fresh information,” he announced as the heavy door swung shut behind him. “Lukan was very eager to cooperate with the PSR.” Knowing smiles appeared around the room. “He told me he delivered Florian to a warehouse on Connolyn Street early this morning. I want a team over there to check it out right away. The reception committee was three of Billop's people: Perrick, terVask, and Bulron. I want their files up here within the hour.

“Now, being the low-life crud he is, Billop was going to dump Florian on the street and hold on to his money. Even the gangs realized Florian is too hot for them. According to Lukan, there was a fight. It was a short one, because Florian has some kind of Faller weapon. It's like a gun that shoots lightning bolts.” He paused for that to sink in. Stonal was adamant there was to be no mention of a Commonwealth connection, so they were still running with the nest alert cover story.

“That means,” he continued, “when we do catch up with him, we will be taking extra precautions. Franzil and I will be drawing up an assault procedure later. In the meantime, our priority is bringing in Billop.” He raised a hand as Nathalie Guyot gathered herself to speak. “Yes, I know he's hard to find, so first I want to talk to our friends Perrick, terVask, and Bulron. We have a clock running on this, so I need them here by tomorrow midday at the latest. Draw up their full profiles, families, friends, where they hang out. Liaise with the sheriffs on this. Nathalie, what do we need to know about gangs?”

She nodded and stood up. At 110 years old, her hair was mostly silver, but her gray-blue eyes were still alert, and she was clearly enjoying her moment as part of the investigation. “Thank you, Captain. Some background for you all. There are four main gangs in Opole. The largest is run by Roxwolf, who I'm embarrassed to say we still haven't shut down after fifteen years. He is the smartest, most ruthless gang boss we've had in the last hundred years; we've never been able to pin a damn thing on him. I can't even give you a likeness, let alone a photo. Witnesses vanish, and it's impossible to turn anyone; we've tried sending in undercover sheriffs, but he always spots them. Any illegal activity in this city runs with his approval. The other three gangs are nominally independent, but in reality he tolerates them, and most of their rackets are run jointly, with Roxwolf's boys taking the lion's share. Billop is the smallest of these.” She put her hand on the map, tracing an outline. “The last gang territory war was three years ago, which saw a whole lot of the smaller operators wiped out, and left Billop with the eastern half of the Gates, extending out into the Veralson and Guntas districts. That's his turf, as agreed with Roxwolf. After the warehouse fight, he'll have gone to ground somewhere in that area. Captain Chaing is right: Perrick is our best way to him. And that leaves terVask and Bulron as the best way to Perrick. The three of them are a solid crew.”

“Okay then,” Chaing said. “It is imperative we get Billop into custody as soon as possible. Someone arranged for Florian to deliver waltans to Billop, and that someone is the best connection we have to Florian right now. Joffler doesn't know who it was; he was told to collect the waltans and arrange shipment. Which means it's Billop who has that name. So go and get me Billop.”

With the investigators given specific assignments, Chaing pulled Jenifa and Yaki aside. “I don't like Billop being our only lead.”

“I'd be disappointed if he was,” Yaki said. “What have you got for me?”

“Jenifa had the records department draw up a list of all Florian's known family and associates from when he was growing up. I want to bring them in.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Seventeen. And that's really scraping the connections barrel. Florian wasn't a sociable person.”

“Okay, do it.”

“His mother is Castillito.”

“Crud. The civil rights activist?”

“Yes.”

Yaki clenched her jaw, which made her scar lighten. “Irrelevant, especially in this case. She doesn't get any special treatment.”

“I'd like to send the assault squad to carry out the arrest. They can search her home and offices, too.”

“Florian won't have gone to her. That's too obvious.”

“Florian is very good at doing what we don't expect.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is he getting to you?”

“Absolutely not. I'm just trying to think like him.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

Like most buildings in the Gates, Aunt Terannia's club was high and narrow, its wooden beams warping over the centuries, leaving walls and floors without any level surface. The ground floor was given over to the club itself, with a small raised stage for musicians facing a floor with twenty tables. A bar along the rear served a good selection of beer, with more casks stored in a tiny cellar underneath. Steep awkwardly angled stairs at the side of the bar led up to the second floor, which had the green room, cluttered with crates of glasses and spare furniture. The staff room was next door and even smaller, with a row of ancient lockers and a cracked porcelain sink. There was also the tiny manager's office, where the desk covered half of the floor space; boxes of spirits took up most of the rest.

The floor above that was Aunt Terannia's apartment. Florian sat at the dining table in the living room, with Essie beside him, greedily scooping up porridge from a bowl. Dull thirty-year-old egg-blue paint on the cracked walls seemed to absorb light from the two electric bulbs hanging overhead, adding to the sense of decline, of no one caring. He tried not to look around because he knew he'd start judging, but he reckoned his lodge back in Albina Valley was a better place to live.

Aunt Terannia poured herself some tea from a big pot glazed with an orange-and-green floral design into a matching cup. Florian remembered that crockery from his childhood. He and Lurji used to come visiting Aunt Terannia a lot when they were growing up; she was actually their mother's second cousin, which made her about the only family they had in Opole.

“What's her name?” Aunt Terannia asked; she was watching Essie closely.

“Essie.”

“Really? I remember another Essie. You were keen on her, as I recall.”