The attached data files will speak for themselves. Two brave scientists gave their lives to expose this legacy of extraordinary animal cruelty on Iolchis. Their names are Dr. Otter Mbowe and Dr. Marianne Fitzpatrick. I trust you will see to it their sacrifice was not in vain.
If you choose not to run this exclusive story, I’m certain any number of your competitors would jump at the chance.
Sincerely,
Anonymous
After feeding the public trans-gate pod terminal seventy-five credits—an extravagant fee for one communiqué, owing to the size of the attachments—Vaughn hit SEND, then immediately scrambled his guest log details. A trick he’d picked up on the trail of countless hackers, forgers, and skimmers.
There was more than enough evidence of animal cruelty in those files to warrant a major investigation into the internal operations of Iolchis Core. All files on the Fleece, however, Vaughn had kept to himself. No one except Jan even knew he had them, and it had to remain that way.
Saint Jacques’s was one of the cleaner warp gate terminals he’d come across. Its franchise restaurants and duty free shops were colorful and spotless, if under-patronized for such a busy station. Troupe masters herded large groups of uniformed, back-packing children to and from the observation levels, many of the kids bumping into each other as they concentrated on the stellar cartograph overlays running across their omnipod visors. A powerful interactive learning tool—a great way to explore the many facets of far-flung systems and planets they might never reach in person.
What would the program tell them about Herculean L-12, a.k.a. Hesperidia?
In her new disguise, Lindsay Polotovsky was quite the starry-eyed colony tourist: tan tights, floral summer dress loose at the shoulders, white headscarf; she could be on her way to or from any destination. Indeed, Vaughn didn’t have the first clue where she was heading, didn’t want to know. So long as she ensured her partner lived up to their promise to Vaughn, no one would know their true identities.
Their claims of having healed the burn victims on Solzhik 3 checked out; the doctors there were understandably nonplussed. That was good. Tales of miraculous healing were ten-a-clip across the colonies, as they always had been throughout human history; they were therefore easy to dismiss. If Finnegan and Polotovsky used the Fleece cannily, judiciously, and never too often in the same vicinity, there was no telling how long they could go on without being found out.
As a career outlaw, Finnegan was more used to traveling incognito. His disguise: simply stop shaving and wear a different jacket. Ta-da! And somehow the guy had never been caught in almost two decades! He had scattered accounts in disreputable places that paid “pig interest” on those savings—his words, not Vaughn’s—that would ensure they need never worry about going broke.
“You personally saw them put Bess in the hold?” The big man chewed his lip and choked the strap of his flight bag.
“Yes, and stop worrying,” replied Vaughn. It was the third time Finnegan had asked him that. Anyone would think he cared more for his goddamn bike than the Fleece hidden inside or the woman he was with—an opinion she herself had voiced more than once. “It’s logged as expedited evidence on the manifest, so customs can’t touch it. It’s under Omicron protection until you sign the release, wherever you disembark. I strongly urge you give her a new paintjob, and a new refit. She’s probably been spotted by cameras on Iolchis and Solzhik, and she does kinda stand out. So do yourself a favor—help her to blend in.”
“You’re talking to a brick wall, Vaughn,” said Polotovsky. “He’ll patch her up, but he won’t change her, not for anything. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
Finnegan grumbled under his breath.
“Well, I guess this is it.” Vaughn handed them their tickets—also encoded with the Omicron Witness Protection seal, to ensure they wouldn’t be detained—and shook their hands. “Safe journey.”
Polotovsky hugged him, and whispered in his ear, “Look after Jan, won’t you.” She kissed his forehead.
Vaughn smiled, didn’t speak.
“Take it easy, lawman.” Finnegan’s parting words. If anyone else had spoken them they would be empty and quickly forgotten; but Finnegan didn’t waste words. As Vaughn watched them join the busy thoroughfare bottlenecking into the boarding gate, and finally disappear from view, he felt lonely. But not in a depressing way. It was the loneliness of someone at a crossroads, pining for a new sense of direction, having blacked out all the old signposts himself.