Loralynn Kennakris 1: The Alecto Initiative (16 page)

Huron laughed, shook his head and smiled. The smile had an
unpleasant edge to it. “Oh yeah.
Oh
yeah.” Still smiling, he stood and
slipped the inspector’s calling card in his pocket. “Well, time to talk to the
cops, I suppose. You’ll let me know if they find anything.”

“You know I will.”

“I do at that.” He clapped N’Komo on the shoulder. “Be back
as soon as I’m finished.”

“Hey, Boss?” N’Komo stopped him as he turned to go. “How did
you know about the fuse?”

“I didn’t. It was the only chance we had.”

“Well, it was still a damn nice move. Never thought you
could pull that off in a civil bird.”

“Thanks, but I didn’t.” N’Komo looked blank. “I mean I
wasn’t doing the flying. That was her, Geoff. No co-pilot seat in that thing.”

N’Komo looked blanker. “You’re kidding, right.”

“Not at all. She had it locked in like I’ve never seen. Not
a shiver. Well . . .” He gave his head a little sideways nod and smiled that
crooked half-smile. “Not until we were on the ground.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, smile twitching down on one side. “Did
drop it a bit hard on the landing though. Gotta work on that.”

“Okay.” N’Komo finally got some expression back in his face:
part irony, part puzzlement. “If you say so. You know best.”

“So I do. Have Vasquez keep a good watch on her, Geoff. I’d
hate like hell to lose this one.”

NBPS HQ, Mare Nemeton
Nedaema, Pleiades Sector

Behind the desk of the Chief Inspector of Nedaema’s
Bureau of Public Safety was a round-headed man with broad mobile features and a
halo of unruly white hair that contrasted shockingly with skin burned almost
black by the suns of many less pleasant worlds. He was of middle height with a
thick lumpish build and wore an indifferently tailored dark gray suit. Rising
to greet Huron, he extended a wide short-fingered hand with an improbable
amount of slivery hair on the back of it.

“Hello Lieutenant. Nikolai Taliaferro,” he said, taking
Huron’s hand in a crushing grip. “As you may have guessed, I am not from these
parts.”

Huron had indeed guessed but he was not entirely prepared
for just how remote Taliaferro’s native parts must have been. He pronounced his
surname
Tolliver
in wonderful defiance of its spelling and he did so in
one of the thickest colonial accents Huron had ever encountered. Huron could
not quite place it; likely it had been blurred by a lifetime in the League’s
backwaters or places even more remote, but its origin was probably Whitworth or
maybe Reunion.

How a colonial had risen to such a high position in a
society as obsessively class
unconscious
as Nedaema—which is to say
they
talked
of egalitarianism at length and greatly valued diversity in
everything but thought and manner—was likely a fascinating tale and Huron
thought that it would be fun someday to hear it. But today was not that day, so
he just returned Taliaferro’s handshake with a polite nod. “Thank you,
Inspector. I’m sorry we have to meet under such circumstances.”

Taliaferro laughed, a rich rather burbling laugh. His eyes
were small and bright blue, and almost disappeared in the creases of his face
when he laughed. “Well, if I wanted to meet people under pleasant
circumstances, I’d get a job as the doorman of a bordello.”

Huron got the impression he said
bordello
out of
respect for his company or because it was duty hours, and otherwise the
earthier colonial terms for such an establishment would come more readily to
his tongue: whorehouse, knocking shop, and of course
fuckery
. “I fully
understand.”

“Sit down. Sit down.” Taliaferro waved him to a seat. “Mind
if I smoke?” He was already rummaging in the recesses of his suit as Huron said
he did not. Tobacco had long since been deprived of it’s harmful character, but
something of the stigma lingered and smoking was almost unheard of in the
Homeworlds, except among the eccentric rich. Huron had a maiden aunt who smoked
ostentatiously when with company.

“Thanks.” The Chief Inspector removed the cigarette he had
located, lit it with a flick of his thumbnail, and inhaled a welcome lungful.
Then he fiddled behind his desk and a holographic display popped into existence
above it. “So. It seems that was a hell of a day.” Taliaferro exhaled a vast
blue cloud that the office air-conditioning instantly detected and began to try
to deal with while he continued to fiddle and the display came alive with data.
“We’ve got the air-traffic control logs, of course, and whatever the planetary
civil sensors can tell us—damn little it looks like—and your flyer’s telemetry,
and I’ve got teams combing the weeds for a launch site. I understand that your
people already nicked the debris. I got a nice preliminary email on the
findings.” Huron inclined his head politely. “So why don’t we go over what you
have and we’ll take it from there.”

Huron stood, to better address the display and explained the
particulars of the incident rapidly and concisely, using the ATC log data and
telemetry for illustration. Taliaferro followed with interest, showing no
problem in keeping up, and asking only a few cogent questions. Huron brought
his testimony to a close.

“That helps.” Taliaferro considered the holographic volume
minutely. “We didn’t have a very good idea of the initial bearing. Those damn
drones are the Mother’s own bitch to detect at high altitude but you can pick
them up near launch by the turbulence they create if nothing else. Not too many
places they could have launched from that we wouldn’t have seen it and given it
was a short endurance hypersonic drone, we should be able to narrow things down
quite a bit now. He blanked the display. “And that was some damn pretty flying,
by the way.”

Huron smiled a polite
thank you
, not clarifying who’d
actually done it. They had already discussed the obvious issues: that Huron’s
flyer had been checked for bugs and tell-tales; that he himself had not known
he planned to fly until that AM, that his flyer was fairly distinctive; that
the drone debris were not. None of it was very satisfying. Taliaferro had
picked up on the non-adaptive fuse on his own and remarked the peculiarity of
it. “Damn peculiar” was, in fact, his summation.

At the end, he fixed Huron with a considering eye. “Tell me,
Lieutenant. If you were going to assassinate someone, is this the way you’d try
to go about it?” Huron allowed that was unlikely. “I agree.” Taliaferro pulled
his chin. “The way I’m seeing this, we keep investigating it as an attempt on
your life. If it wasn’t and they had another goal in mind and they think we’re
fishing in the wrong pond, we may flush ‘em out a bit. Maybe we get lucky.
Maybe convince ‘em to underestimate us. I think I’ll go make a couple of
slightly obtuse public statements. And of course, I’d appreciate any results
your people can pass along.”

Huron promised they would, as far as they were able.

“Thanks. Other than that . . .” Taliaferro spread his hands.
“I think we’re done here for now.”

They stood and shook hands again. “Keep your eyes on the
skyline, Lieutenant,” Taliaferro said as Huron turned to leave. “My gut tells
me that whatever the hell’s going on, this business is gonna get worse before
it gets
even
worse.”

*     *     *

The calling card lit up with Mariwen’s image and Kris
tapped
ACCEPT
, feeling a little anxious. “Hi Kris,” Mariwen began. She
looked a little uncertain too. “I wanted to call and apologize for being so
abrupt last time. I didn’t mean to get off the line so quickly. I’m sorry. I
know I should have called sooner—I wanted to but . . .”

“It’s okay. I know you’re busy.”

Mariwen rolled her eyes. “It’s
insane
. The media
won’t leave me alone and testifying at these hearings has me all in knots.
Lora’s—” She stopped suddenly. “And then this attack, all the security. Lora
brought in these new people—she doesn’t think I’m safe . . .” Another halt, a
strained laugh with something worrisome about the edges. “My
god! Listen
to me! I haven’t even asked how you are. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Really? Good. I just worried”—Mariwen glanced away—“I
mean . . . it seemed you were seeing a lot of Lieutenant Huron, so I, um . . .”
She stalled to visibly collect herself. “Anyway. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.
Look, what I really wanted to do was ask if you wanted to go out for an
evening. Would you?”

“Go out?” Kris bit the inside of her lip. “Go out where?”

Mariwen laughed. “Anywhere! I just thought it would be nice
to spend an evening together. Have dinner, maybe see a show. Go shopping—”

“Shopping?”

“Yeah.” Mariwen brightened, that old twinkle starting to
come back. “You know, girl stuff.”

Kris did not know. Mariwen detected the confusion under the
blankness, but not its cause. Her face fell a couple of millimeters. “I, ah . .
. I don’t want to intrude. If you have plans . . .”

A tiny flash of insight blossomed in Kris’s brain. “Oh, no!
I mean you aren’t. It’s nothing—I don’t have any plans.”

“Then would you like to?”

Kris gathered her courage, fought down the rising nerves.
Shows?
Shopping?
“Sure. It sounds like fun.”

“Great! I’ll pick you up in a hour, okay? Do you have
anything to wear?”

To wear?
Oh shit
...

Mariwen caught the look. “Oh, don’t worry. We’re about the
same size—I’ll bring a couple of things. We’ll get you all fixed up! Send a
map ref, okay?”

“Sure.” She remembered them showing her that. She was sure
she could figure it out again. “Thanks.” She managed to keep the tremor out of
her voice. “See you in an hour.”

“Thanks so much! Bye!”

“Bye.” The line dropped, Kris found the map reference and
sent it—it was ridiculously easy, really—and then sat on the floor, arms
tight around her knees and let the shaking take over.

Dinner. A
show
. Shopping.
Get you all fixed up
. . .

Trench liked to take her shopping sometimes. Usually in
some city on Cathcar or Solon—she couldn’t recall the names—during
maintenance stopovers. He put these electronic bracelets and anklets on her so
she wouldn’t run off but mostly so everyone knew exactly what she was. They’d
go through shops and kiosks full of stuff Kris had seen in vids. Trench bought
her things—clothes, shoes, jewelry. At the kiosks, he liked to make her change
clothes outside, trying on new outfits over and over again . . .

Get—You—All—Fixed—Up
.

He’d have some people do her hair and make her up. Then he
would take her to a show in her new clothes, painted up in striking and garish
colors: deep bloody reds and slash of black or gold across one eye. They’d
usually do body makeup on her too: neon nipples and swirling fluorescent
scrolls on her abdomen with arrows pointing down.

There would be a lot of people there—people like Trench
with their girls. When her turn came, he’d put her up on this platform under
the harsh spots with the laser lights glittering off her painted flesh and then
he and his
friends
would . . .

Kris dropped her face to her knees. Tears ran hot and her
teeth chattered as she shook. Her arms squeezed harder, hugging herself as
tight as she could as she tried to breathe.

He’s dead. The fucker’s dead. He can’t do that anymore
.
She fought for and gained a deep breath.
He’s dead
. . .

She closed her eyes, dug deep, reaching down for that place—for
home
—way down inside.

He’s fucking dead
. . .

By the time the door chimed, she was almost back to
normal. She paged Mariwen in and met her at the apartment door a minute later.
Mariwen breezed in with a smile and two shopping bags, saw Kris’s face and
froze. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s alright,” Kris said, her voice low and still clotted.
“I’ve just been a little stressed.”

Mariwen came over, put her arms around Kris and held tight.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know. I know . . .”

Her fingers pressed into Kris’s back, feeling the knotted
muscles. She began to rub, firmly, gently, and Kris, her face pressed hard in
the juncture of Mariwen’s neck and shoulder, brought her arms up around
Mariwen’s waist. Her delicate perfume tickled Kris’s nose—unnamable flowers
and alien spice—and she began to relax. After a long minute, Kris let go and
Mariwen slid her hands up to Kris’s shoulders. “Better?” Her eyes were still
clouded with concern.

Kris nodded.

“Okay.” Mariwen let her go and reached for the bags she’d
dropped. “Let’s see what we have.” The bags produced a couple of dresses—one
bright and slightly iridescent and one shimmery black, shoes to go with each—and
a sober dark suit, exquisitely tailored, with a short jacket, an ivory shell
top and lovely matching boots with a moderate heel.

“What do you like?” Mariwen asked and following her eyes
said, “Okay, the suit. I’d thought you’d probably like that. It’s an
Ajaib-Gher
design.”

That meant nothing to Kris but she nodded agreeably as she
made a tactical retreat to bedroom to try it on. When she came out Mariwen
beamed. “Perfect!” Then she considered Kris critically, tapping a fingernail on
her perfect teeth. “You know,” she began, hedging her statement with a cautious
note, “I’ve never seen anyone who needs makeup less than you do, but if you
want, we could try a
little
something.”

Kris took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Sure. Okay.”

Mariwen grinned, took out a small kit and tried a
little
something
: just some dark liner and a subtle bit of shadow to tilt her eyes
into the green, and lip gloss. “There!” she proclaimed, happy— even
triumphant. “
Nice
. Are you ready?”