***
While Vaughn and his chaperone rose inside the silent, see-through wisp of an elevator to the executive levels, armed guards herded a mob of reporters to one half of the foyer below. Neither group behaved well; but Vaughn had seen firsthand how tenacious and bullish journalists could be when denied access to important people during important events, and frankly he didn’t blame anyone for manhandling them a little.
“What did your C.O. say when you told him?” Vaughn asked.
“That I had to report anything unusual. And that I wasn’t to let you out of my sight.”
“Nothing new there. Well I won’t keep you a minute longer than is necessary, Spielman, I can promise you that. But I might ask for your inside knowledge of the facility here and there. Is that all right? Not conflicting with your oath or anything?” In theory an Omicron agent could insist on cooperation from any individual on any world inside 100z, but in Vaughn’s experience the most fruitful cooperation was the volunteered kind. Someone who genuinely wanted to help would be less inclined to omit pertinent facts, and as Vaughn didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, a comrade willing to go out on a limb might make all the difference.
“All right with me, sir. Any information I can give. If it helps nail whoever’s behind all this...”
“Good for you.”
The elevator reached the Executive 2 floor and Spielman led them out onto a maglev conveyer with a cushioned seat. The bug-like vehicle floated slowly, silently along an endless, crescent corridor stretching half way around the facility. Vaughn had expected conference rooms and plush offices, but Executive 2 was instead a series of large, empty black cubes dotted with fluorescent markers.
“The Omega officials are here?”
“At the far end.” Spielman was busy texting via her wrist-com.
To fill the time, Vaughn switched his omnipod on. Jan’s voice in his ear was more of a comfort than he’d expected. For one, he’d grown very fond of her accent—Spanish was fairly uncommon outside the inner colonies. And she didn’t mince words, another thing he liked in a woman. But it was also a reminder that he could really use a bonafide scientist at his side right now, in this ultra-secretive installation that specialised in fields of research he literally had no inkling of how to approach.
That it had attracted such major players—ISPA, the Malesseurs—suggested Iolchis Core had hit on something unprecedented, something immensely lucrative. But what? Spielman was only on the security staff; she knew as much about biology as Vaughn did about the back end of Black Hole Bertha. If it was something Lori Malesseur had stolen, then presumably she knew where it was. That had to be why the Iolchians were holding onto her in defiance of her powerful dad and ISPA. Yes, they’d stop at nothing to get this elusive piece of research back, whatever it was.
“So anyway, before you jump half-cocked into some political shoot-out, Vaughn, I think you should know a little more about Iolchis Core, at least what I’ve...” Jan had sent the message directly to the Pitch Hopper’s CPU as Vaughn had been leaving the Hesp’s atmosphere, so parts of it were garbled or incomplete. He was replaying it now so it would all be fresh in his mind during his questioning of Lewartow. “...ember I told you ISPA banned GenMod research altogether several...ago? Well, as you say, Iolchis isn’t yet under ISPA juris.... That particular facility’s been operating unsupervised, pioneering all sorts of wild research. I only...rumours, but they’re pretty far out, even for GenMod.”
He heard a page refresh chime, as though Jan had recalled information on her monitor.
“There have been all sorts of rumours trickling out of there, like the development of programmable cells used to induce involuntary behavior. And some really ambitious hybri... splicing Earth animals with exotic alien DNA. Stopper’s parents were just the tip of the iceberg. The science is limitless.”
No kidding.
“Then there’s the money involved,” she went on. “If the rumors are true, Iolchis Core is potentially the most lucrative installation in the history of the colonies. New medicines, new drugs, new genetic enhancements. No wonder ISPA wants a piece of it. No wonder a corporate jackal like Malesseur is sniffing around. And his daughter was done for espionage?” She laughed. “What a shocker.
“I’ve also heard tell of a huge leap the Iolchians have made in cell regeneration. It’s had all the science channels buzzing for months now, though details are still pretty sketchy. I’d always understood we’d gone as far as we could in that field, with terrestrial morphogenic biology. Solving the problem of cellular decay is one thing; we can slow that, even stop it. But the treatment takes time, and the patents are protected by a tiny minority. And as far as I know, ISPA hasn’t made any significant progress in alien phenomics. So whatever the Iolchians have achieved, and whatever secret Lori Malesseur tried to steal, it isn’t going to stay on Iolchis. That place has no political clout anymore. It was finished when ISPA installed its sat net blockade. One way or another, ISPA is going to own that facility. The only question is: will they get their hands on all the research they’re after?
“Be careful, Vaughn. I’m afraid you might be in over your head on this one. Meanwhile, I’ll keep trying to contact my colleagues at the other outposts. No luck so far. Oh, and the McCormick’s and Arinto are chilling in the fridge. I’d really love to save you some, but you know what?” Several glugging sounds later, “You’d really better hurry.”
End of message.
Vaughn snorted a laugh. Spielman pretended to be in on the joke and reciprocated. Vaughn saved the complete message to file on his omnipod, first in the case log, then in his personal folder. Then he massaged his throat repeatedly, a habit he’d adopted when wrestling with a problem he knew he should be able to break but which his overactive mind couldn’t quite corral. Getting Jan involved with the case had been a wise move. It had dislodged stalactites of intuition he might otherwise not have considered. The puzzle’s foundations were rocking, its structure ready to topple. He was so close to touching the keystone of the entire case it could be a hair’s breadth away on the tip of his tongue—and was no less irritating for that.
Maybe if he’d brought her with him, it would have come to him by now. And if not, at least he could have listened to Jan a bit longer.
He could happily listen to Jan all day long.
Not just the spartan decor but the entire structure of the level had changed by the time the maglev conveyer eased to a halt at the end of its track. Gone where the black cubicles; in their place, behind reinforced glass, one long, unbroken horizontal spiral machine, made of what looked like liquid marble, stretched the length of over a dozen rooms. It resembled a giant, slow-spinning grey drill bit. Flickers of blue light shot out through grooves in the spiral and left changing patterns of afterglow on the room’s floor and ceiling.
“Some kind of computer?” Vaughn asked.
“An organic computer. They say it can predict the likelihood of future events to a frightening degree of accuracy, based on past events and current variables. The more information you feed in, the greater the accuracy of its predictions. ISPA’s military intelligence has already bought one from us—a few years back. That’s what funded our research on the Fleece.”
“The Fleece?”
Spielman grabbed him by the arm, halted him. “You’re telling me you came here to investigate Lori Malesseur’s raid and you’ve never heard of the Golden Fleece? What is this?”
Vaughn quick-shuffled his mental footing. “Ah, so that’s what you call it here. I told you I’ve never been to Iolchis before. Off-world, they have another nickname for it.”
“Yeah? What’s that.”
“Money.”
Spielman twitched a smile but continued glaring at him. “Enough to grow our city a hundredfold, so I’ve heard. When they get that bitch to spill where she’s hidden it, we’ll own this planet and half the systems in this sector. Let ISPA try and blockade us then.” She spat on the floor, then held up her hands, sho
wing Vaughn her rough palms. “Present company accepted.”
“You’ll get no arguments from me. You’ve made the breakthrough, you want what’s coming to you. ISPA grew in exactly the same way.”
“Just so. Well, here we are, sir.” Spielman showed him to a smooth, Lincoln green door marked, Executive K4. “I’ll be waiting outside if you need me.”
“Thanks.” Vaughn knocked and waited for a reply. None came. He went to knock again when Spielman advised him to “Just go in. The light’s green over the door, so they’ve already let you in.”
Vaughn couldn’t see a handle or a sensor pad, so he went to push the door open instead. He stumbled forward, and realised his hand had pushed through it—a holographic surface, its repulsion field already deactivated. Pretty swish tech for an OC desert facility.
He stepped through and found himself at the head of a long, carpeted office that smelled of boot blacking and strong coffee. Three men stood hunched over the far end of a tabletop digi-screen that stretched the entire length of the room. Two men wore colored shirts with dazzling sheens, their sleeves rolled up to the elbows, while the third wore a cream duster with variegated epaulettes—the uniform of an Omega-level mediator.
“What can we do for you, officer?” Vaughn couldn’t tell who’d spoken; they were too far away.
“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I just have a few questions for a Mr. Lewartow and the ISPA officer in charge, whoever that—”
“Vaughn?”
Surreal clouding, an old shiver, then a disorienting flash of recognition. The latter was quietly thrilling. “Sir?”
“What are you doing here, Vaughn?”
“Investigating a case, sir.” Vaughn’s words echoed back across the room with the full weight of admiration, of pride, of knowing that he’d fulfilled his potential and more as an agent in the Omicron Bureau. His old mentor, Saul DeSanto, didn’t look a day older than when they’d last met—Vaughn’s graduation. If anything he was harder, sleeker, his balding had called a time-out, and his pasted-back hair was more silver than white. He still resembled a youthful great-uncle who’d wear tracksuits to go jogging and would manage a mean men’s high-g cycling team on weekends.
As an Omicron instructor, Saul DeSanto was a merciless sonofabitch, an easy man to hate if you weren’t capable of reaching his infuriatingly high standard. But if you could and more importantly did reach that standard, and maintained it, he would take you under his wing, draw out your strengths and forge them into tools you never knew you had, to ensure you became the best agent you could possibly be.
He’d changed Vaughn’s life forever, no question. In every conceivable way...
“By all means, Mr. Vaughn.” A strangely reassuring formal address from pretty much the only man in the galaxy whose advice Vaughn trusted without question. “I take it you don’t mind me being present for the questioning? Mr. Lewartow and Mr. Malesseur are under my protection during their stay in Iolchis Core.”
“I don’t mind at all, sir. On the contrary, I welcome your input.” And Vaughn was suddenly on top of the case again, no longer fumbling with blind hope through the shards of a smashed desert lab. With DeSanto backing him up, no one, not even notorious chicanery artists like Malesseur and his slimeball number one, would be able to fob him off. He had his edge, his peerless training.
“It shouldn’t take long, gentlemen.”
DeSanto made the quick introductions, then stepped aside to let Vaughn by.
Simon Malesseur, horribly wrinkled by now, despite the fact he could afford any rejuvenation operation he desired, wore his eighty-seven years with surprising grace. His legendary reputation for success through callousness in business had inspired a generation of amoral interstellar entrepreneurs, but in person he was warm, charming, and extremely charismatic. “I’m a fan, Vaughn. Truly. You epitomize everything an Omicron agent should aspire to be.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now what can we do for you, young man?”
Vaughn turned to Ilya Lewartow, a much bigger, duller, hairy bear of a man who flipped up his omnipod visor to glower down at his interrogator. “I have a few questions for you, sir,” said Vaughn, “regarding a Nina-class shuttle, an S-14, that left here three days ago.”
Lewartow flicked Malesseur a glance, then removed his headset, set it gently down on the digi-screen. He switched the tabletop image to screensaver when he saw Vaughn studying it—he needn’t have bothered, because it was a stellar map of a system Vaughn didn’t recognise. “What about it?” Lewartow rolled his shirtsleeves up a little farther, not exactly a threatening gesture but not exactly a supplicating one either.
“I take it you know the one I’m referring to.”
Lewartow was silent.
“It’s registered to your company, Spota-Veert.”
The big CEO once again glanced across to his boss, this time with a smile. He wasn’t fooling anyone. Vaughn’s research had put the big man on the spot, and Lewartow was unprepared for this line of questioning.
“What’s all this about, son?” Malesseur wiped the edge of the tabletop with a handkerchief, the spot where his hands had been resting, where they’d left a misty print.
“A murder investigation, Mr. Malesseur. I’m trying to find out why this particular Nina ship was sent from here to the carbon mining camp on Solzhik 3. And why it then pursued and attacked a defenceless courier ship, forcing it to land on a protected planet in the Herculean System.”
“Ilya?” Malesseur motioned to his colleague.
“Sounds to me like it was hijacked on Solzhik, sir. No crew of mine would ever do something so idiotic. And the Herculean System? It has to be a suck-bait criminal outfit. There’s nothing there.”
At a conference table, fully prepped, he might be able to worm his way into or out of billion-clip takeovers, but on the fly, Lewartow was a serious amateur. A bad liar. And from the other men’s reactions—both looked away at the same time—they knew it too.
“Who was murdered?” asked DeSanto.
“The Nina’s crew. All five of them.”
“Have you identified them?”
“Yes, sir. On the way here. They were experienced mercenaries, muscle for hire. They’d all done jobs for Spota-Veert before: security, strike-busting, debt collection. My guess is they were on a permanent payroll, mostly off the books of course.”
“I don’t like your inference, young man,” said Malesseur.
“Which one?”
“Suggesting one of my top men is engaged in criminal activities. Saul, you should have a word with your protégé. Tell him to mind who he accuses.”
DeSanto eyed each of them in turn, said nothing.
And suddenly, there it was, apropos of nothing. An infinitesimal spark somewhere inside Vaughn’s questing brain lit the entire case with such inevitable, natural light its solution seemed almost anticlimactic, not worthy of such grand components.
But he could definitely use it to wrong-foot his opponents.
“I just have one more question, then I’ll be on my way,” he said, a little miffed that his mentor hadn’t jumped in to defend him against Malesseur. “Who really stole the Golden Fleece?”
All three men looked up at him.
Vaughn was certain he was on the right track. But he wanted details, he wanted evidence. He must know who he was up against on the Hesp.
Malesseur now quirked an eyebrow at DeSanto, as if to ask, Can we trust this kid with the truth? He received a nod in reply.
“Good, lad, good.” Who would have guessed Malesseur was addressing an Omicron agent? Could the old man be any more condescending? “I’m glad you know they’ve wrongly imprisoned my Lori, that you’re aware the real raiders are still at large. That’s made me feel a little easier. And from the sounds of it, you’ve found them. Am I right?”
Vaughn was silent.
“Mr. Vaughn, is he correct?” An injection of authority sharpened DeSanto’s words. “If you have evidence that could as
sist our extradition of Miss Malesseur, let’s have it.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’d like to have my question answered first. Who escaped Iolchis with the Fleece?” A part of him couldn’t believe he’d just contradicted the best lawman in all of ISPA, but he also guessed DeSanto would quietly approve. Vaughn was in charge of his own case, and by Omicron law, deciding what information to divulge and when was his sacrosanct right. His authority over said investigation could not be countermanded until he either relinquished it or turned in his final report.
“You’re on the trail of two dangerous criminals,” answered Lewartow, without a trace of irony. “A man named Finnegan—a mercenary who’s worked throughout both the IC and OC underworlds for years—and Lindsay Polotovsky, his accomplice. She was actually Lori’s personal assistant until she plotted against her and let Lori, who was completely innocent, take the blame for the theft. That pair is as devious as they come, and extremely dangerous. We lost track of them after they bribed their way off-world.”
“And it’s coincidence that five of your people were gunned down at the end of a long, dicey pursuit of a courier ship?”
“Like I said, Mr. Vaughn, I know nothing about what happened to my crew or their ship after Solzhik 3. If they did clock Finnegan and Polotovsky and gave chase, they were doing Mr. Malesseur a service. And I’m deeply saddened to hear they died attempting to apprehend those two scumbags.” Spoken like the politician his reputation had suggested.
“In that case, I’d—”
“Just a minute, Vaughn,” interrupted DeSanto, upturning the collar of his duster, even though the room was warm, “did you say the Herculean System?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought that rang a bell.” He put his arm around Vaughn, ushered him along the full length of the table until they were out of earshot of the others. “This is all happening on Hesperidia, isn’t it?” he whispered. “The planetary preserve?”
“Sir.”
“And you’re on your own?”
“For the time being. Another agent has promised to send back-up if I need it.”
“Not that oaf, Kraczinski? You’d better not be relying on him to help you with such a sensitive manhunt.”
“He’s all right, sir. Might be a bit slow to get going sometimes, but he’s a sound lawman.”
“Well, I’ve got a better idea. What happens on Hesperidia could directly affect the outcome of this mediation. The Iolchians insist Lori knows where the Fleece is, but if we could prove that she doesn’t, that these two mercenaries have fled with it; if we could apprehend them alive, we could patch this whole thing up in no time. Politically speaking, this is more delicate than you know. I can’t go into specifics, but I can say it’s imperative that both Iolchis Core and Simon Malesseur leave this incident satisfied that justice has been done.”
“I’m with you so far.”
“Good. Now, I want you to report back to the Bureau Hub with your findings, and let me direct this manhunt on Hesperidia. It’s the wiser option. I’m far better-equipped to marshal an operation of this complexity, with all the red tape involved, the politics at play. And especially with an idiot like Kraczinski straining to be let off the leash, I dread to think what would happen if I wasn’t in charge.”
Vaughn was silent.
“You’ve done a splendid job, Vaughn, first-rate all the way. Confronting Malesseur like that, impressive, and you didn’t even blink. That’s why I graduated you earlier than any recruit I’ve ever trained. You have an innate sense of duty—it was fully formed before you ever came to me. All I did was build on that foundation. With most recruits, I have to knock them down to build them up again from scratch, but you were born to be Omicron. Which is why I know you’ll take my advice now and step aside so that I can finish this, for the good of ISPA.”
“Sir.”
He slapped Vaughn’s back. “Good. Then I’ll send—”
“I’m not dropping the case, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
Vaughn sniffed, stood straight. “I said I’m not relinquishing anything until I’ve arrested all those responsible. I might not have asked for this case, but it fell to me, and I’ll see it through. By all means, help me catch the fugitives, sir. Any red tape you can cut to make that happen will be hugely appreciated.”
“I see. You don’t feel like bowing to my seniority, eh?”
“Sir, with all due respect, you don’t have—”
“All right, all right. No need to quote Omicron regulations to me, son. I wrote half of ’em myself.”
“Then you’ll excuse me?”
DeSanto stepped aside, maintaining eye contact. “Then at least do one thing for me, Vaughn.”
“Sir?”
“Look after yourself. Don’t take any unnecessary risks on Hesperidia. These are dangerous people. I’d hate to lose you.”
“I will, sir. And good luck with your mediation. Soon as I have Finnegan and Polotovsky, I’ll send word.”
DeSanto threw him a wink, then returned to his corporate colleagues, leaving Vaughn more than a little discombobulated by the exchange. His first thought? What the hell! Rather than offer assistance, his old mentor had wanted to kick him off the case. His second thought? What the hell?
Outside, he asked Spielman to direct him to the cafeteria, so he could get a full meal before the next leg of his alien safari. On the Hesp, where he might be better off after all, where the predators were...less complicated.