The Peyti Crisis: A Retrieval Artist Novel: Book Five of the Anniversary Day Saga (Retrieval Artist series 12) (38 page)

“Now, I’m in a legal purgatory,” Uzvaan said. “Your authorities know what I am. I have no rights under Alliance law. And yet, I’m a lawyer, with more knowledge than almost anyone about the way things work. I truly did not expect this.”

Nyquist wished he understood the tones of the Peyti better than he did. He couldn’t quite assume that what he heard was wistfulness or sadness, even though he wanted it to be.

Still, Uzvaan’s comment surprised him.

“You didn’t consider failure?” Nyquist asked.

For the first time, Uzvaan spoke Peytin. It sounded almost rote. Nyquist hoped the words got recorded, because he didn’t know Peytin at all.

Then Uzvaan blinked and looked away for a moment.

Programmed? Nyquist couldn’t tell.

“What did you just say?” Nyquist asked.

Uzvaan’s eyes closed slowly, then reopened. “It is not important.”

Which meant that it had been.

Nyquist wouldn’t find out what Uzvaan had said until he listened to the recording—if he could listen to the recording.

Nyquist had to continue moving forward.

“I take that to mean you never thought you’d fail,” he said. “Strange assumption for a smart guy like you. Because you had to know that everybody fails the first time they try something.”

Uzvaan leaned back, hands still locked in position. “No, they do not.”

“You failed,” Nyquist said. “
All
of you failed. That can’t feel good.”

Uzvaan sighed again. “It doesn’t feel anything. I did not plan to see the results of our action.”

Nyquist let out an understanding “aah.” At least, he hoped it sounded understanding. “So,” he said, “you felt trapped by your destiny.”

“No.” Uzvaan raised his head slightly. Nyquist had always seen looks like that on Peyti and thought they were adjusting their masks. He hadn’t realized until now that they were raising their heads with pride. “I felt like I was living two lives. The one I wanted, and the one I had been given. Both would end on the same day. I had always known that.”

Uzvaan was a lawyer. He knew words were important. He knew admissions were important.

Maybe DeRicci had been right; maybe some of the clones
were
willing to talk.

That was certainly what it seemed like right now. If Uzvaan believed his previous lives had ended a week ago, he owed nothing to anyone—not his former clients or his former boss, and certainly not the ones who had created him for this mission.

“Which puts you in a bit of a limbo now,” Nyquist said carefully.

“I prefer to think of it as born anew,” Uzvaan said. “Or perhaps starting anew, since I was never born in the traditional sense.”

That spurt of elation returned. Nyquist wished it hadn’t. He couldn’t let his emotions cloud this interview.

“This new life of yours could be very short,” Nyquist said.

“It could,” Uzvaan said, “although I don’t worry about that at the moment. I am more concerned with the way that my life has become small, and will stay small unless I do something.”

He
was
opening a door. There was no mistaking that now.

“What can you do?” Nyquist asked.

Uzvaan tilted his head slightly. “I’m sure you know, detective.”

“I’m also sure that I dare not make any assumptions,” Nyquist said with more honesty than he would like.

“You came here to bargain, correct?” Uzvaan asked.

“No,” Nyquist said. He knew he could not admit that. Uzvaan didn’t know that, because he didn’t know about S
3
, but he would eventually, and if Nyquist didn’t play this right, Uzvaan himself might change his mind about what he said. Legally, he could do that. “I came to discuss poor Ursula Palmette.”

“Still, you are a detective.” Uzvaan was actually pushing this. Nyquist hadn’t expected that at all. “I presume you are investigating the attacks of last week. I will wager that you can make deals.”

Nyquist didn’t agree or disagree. He didn’t dare. “What are you interested in?”

“A full pardon in exchange for information,” Uzvaan said.

It took all of Nyquist’s strength to contain the laugh of derision that threatened to overtake him. Uzvaan was asking the man he had tried to kill for a pardon?

One of the things that Nyquist had always admired about Uzvaan the lawyer was his willingness to take risks. And he just took a big one.

“That’s impossible,” Nyquist said quietly. “And even if it were possible, I wouldn’t tell anyone that you wanted it. Remember, Uzvaan, you were looking me in the eye when you tried to activate your fucking bomb.”

“I have not forgotten,” Uzvaan said. “But you should remember that I am also a lawyer, and I know negotiation. I will start with what I want.”

“All right,” Nyquist said. “You want to play it that way? I can do that. Because what I want is for you to tell me everything, and then die according to our laws.”

His voice shook just a little. He regretted that. He wanted to sound calmer. But he couldn’t.

“Obviously,” Uzvaan said, “neither of us will get what we want.”

“Obviously,” Nyquist said. “And apparently, you’re not going to talk to me about Palmette, so I wasted my day.”

He stood. Somewhere, there was a button that would notify the authorities that he wanted to leave. He wasn’t sure how long it would take them to retract the bubble. He hoped that standing was enough to signal that he wouldn’t play games.

“What will you offer?” Uzvaan asked. “Or must you check with your bosses?”

Uzvaan sounded almost desperate. Maybe he was desperate. He probably was. After all, he had said that he had the life he wanted and the life he had been given. Presumably, he had carried that bomb according to the life he had been given.

Presumably, being a respected lawyer on the Moon had been the life he wanted.

He would never get that back, no matter how hard he argued for it.

“They’re not going to give you anything,” Nyquist lied. He remained standing. “You’re part of a plot to bring down the entire Moon. They won’t negotiate with you.”

“You’re portraying them as fools, and I know they’re not, Detective.” Uzvaan leaned to his left, trying to adjust his right arm. He was pinned in; no doubt about that now. “You need information. I have some. I’m willing to trade it. I’m talking to you because you are my only visitor since I was brought here. I suspect you’re the only visitor I’ll ever have. I’m not trying to insult you.”

Nyquist let out a small snort. “Good to know,” he said sarcastically. “I won’t take my attempted murder badly then.”

Uzvaan bowed his head. “I’m not going to insult you with an apology—”

“Why not?” Nyquist asked. His face had flushed. His heart rate had gone up. This
was
a mistake, a bad one. DeRicci should have sent someone else—anyone else.

“Because,” Uzvaan said softly. “It was a condition of my existence.”

“
My
murder?” Nyquist asked.

“The deaths on the Moon,” Uzvaan said. “They were the price I paid for surviving.”

“Surviving?” Nyquist asked.

“Surviving.” Uzvaan nodded. “And that is all I will tell you without some kind of negotiation.”

FORTY-TWO

WHILE HE WAITED for Uzvuyiten, Salehi made some fresh coffee. He usually wasn’t a coffee snob, but he needed something to do with his hands. Besides, his quarters had been stocked with all of the premium foods and beverages blended exclusively for S
3
, done to impress the clients. Salehi had no idea if the clients were impressed, but it certainly gave him a lot of choices he wouldn’t normally have.

Normally, he would have ordered whatever caffeinated beverage he could find from the bots that kept circling the library. But waiting for Uzvuyiten made him nervous, so he needed something to do.

More caffeine was probably not the best thing—particularly since he couldn’t offer any to Uzvuyiten—but Salehi didn’t care. The coffee sounded good, so he was going to have some.

He was nearly done using the old-fashioned machine, the one that purists insist he use and which came with the suite, a machine that boiled its own water to the correct temperature and then filtered it through freshly ground beans, when the door eased open.

“Rafael?” Uzvuyiten asked.

“In here.” Salehi grabbed a thick mug. He’d nearly burned himself once before making coffee like this, and he had learned his lesson. The air filled with the aroma of fresh-brewed and, as he turned, he realized the scent was wasted on Uzvuyiten.

The Peyti’s mask was no different than it had been an hour ago, but now, after the Peyti Crisis, Salehi always found his gaze drawn to the mask first. He wished he could stop it; Uzvuyiten probably thought the glance rude.

Uzvuyiten climbed onto one of the seats near the eat-in table. His movements were jerky—the chair was a little too high for him—and he looked like a child sitting down in a place where he wasn’t allowed.

“What’s so important?” he asked.

“Has your government found the source of the DNA for Uzvekmt?” Salehi asked. He had decided, while he made that coffee, that he would be as blunt as he could with Uzvuyiten.

Uzvuyiten’s large eyes seemed even more liquid than usual.

“I would tell you,” he said after a moment.

“Would you?” Salehi asked. “You want this case as much as I do. Finding where the source DNA came from might result in us losing the case.”

Uzvuyiten opened his weirdly bent fingers just a bit. He seemed a little uncomfortable. His suit bagged. He hadn’t adjusted it like he usually did when he sat down.

“Don’t play with me,” Uzvuyiten said. “What’s going on?”

“We had our own detectives looking for the source of the DNA,” Salehi said. “They can’t find who made the Uzvekmt clones. But they did find out that the DNA wasn’t handled correctly in the first place.”

Uzvuyiten’s head moved ever so slightly. Then he tilted it sideways. “Laws were different in those days. Peyla makes sure it complies with all DNA laws now.”

So he knew that the DNA had been mishandled. Salehi felt his entire body focus, like it sometimes did in a trial. Each movement became theater. He turned and grabbed the handle of the coffee carafe. It creaked from the weight and the hot temperature of the liquid inside.

“Have you found who sold the source DNA to whoever cloned those defendants?” Salehi asked, his back to Uzvuyiten. Salehi only knew how to interpret a few movements in a Peyti, so watching Uzvuyiten’s reaction wasn’t as important as watching another human’s would have been.

“I would have told you,” Uzvuyiten said calmly.

Salehi poured the coffee. Steam rose from it. The liquid was a rich golden brown, and it slowly became light tan as the mug mixed in the right amount of cream and sugar.

“Would you really have told me?” Salehi asked. “I thought you might have a few hours ago, but since I got a report from my detectives, I figured you are withholding information.”

“What would I be withholding?” Uzvuyiten asked, using a very old lawyer trick. Answer a question with a question, and get the desired response from the opponent.

This time, Salehi didn’t mind answering. He cupped the mug, the exterior incongruously cool, given the fact that steam still rose from the liquid inside.

He turned, waited until Uzvuyiten’s gaze met his, and then said, “An organization inside the Alliance has had the DNA for decades. There is no record of any sale, at least that we can find. We’re also unaware of any trafficking in Peyti DNA.”

“You’re saying this is an Alliance matter?” Uzvuyiten’s voice rose, like a human’s might do if the human were showing just a little surprise and distress. But Uzvuyiten was a good actor, just like Salehi was. And Salehi wasn’t going to trust any reaction that Uzvuyiten had.

“I’ve come across the Alliance twice now in relation to the attacks on the Moon. I can’t believe that the Alliance itself would willfully destroy any part of itself, particularly the entrance to Earth, so I have to think something else is going on.” He paused, sipped the coffee, and then leaned against the counter, resting the mug on the countertop.

Uzvuyiten studied him for a long time. The silence echoed. It was almost a contest of wills. Most humans would have interrupted, would have said anything, to fill the quiet, but Salehi had learned how to use silence as a weapon, apparently just like Uzvuyiten had.

It took nearly ten minutes, long enough for the coffee to cool, long enough for Salehi to get comfortable, before Uzvuyiten finally spoke.

“Why do you think we hired S-Three?”

“We thought it was our stellar reputation,” Salehi said, not even trying to disguise the sarcasm in his voice.

“That, yes,” Uzvuyiten said, as if he didn’t understand sarcasm. Salehi knew better, but he let that slide. “We also hired you because you have few Alliance-based clients. You usually represent corporations which, while they are registered in the Alliance, often sue the Alliance or challenge the Alliance’s laws.”