“One can never be ‘absolutely certain’ of … anything.” The Source’s corroded murmur ran an insinuating finger down her spine.
She frowned. Even wearing vision-enhancing eye membranes, which allowed her to access a range of the EM spectrum far wider than the purely visible, she could tell nothing more about him than that someone—something—alive shared this black box of a room with her. She functioned within the Brotherhood’s inner circles at a level at least equal to his own, but she had never been able to get closer than this to the truth about the man who had once been Thanin Jaakola, but who now had no true identity other than his chosen one.
It was rumored that the Source had a wasting, incurable disease that forced him to live in darkness. But she was all too aware that darkness could be one more form of disguise, allowing him the freedom to be anyone, or no one. And she knew that he knew it, which gave her less than no tolerance for his insipid mind games.
“Speak for yourself, Jaakola.” She addressed him by his name, which she knew annoyed him, rather than by the title he demanded of his underlings: Master. “The Police—”
“—are as much in the dark as you are at present, my dear Mundilfoere.”
She fingered the star-and-compass pendant she wore, touching the gem called a solii, the symbol of enlightenment, set at its heart. “Speak for yourself. LaisTree is about to be released from the hospital. My Judiciate and Police contacts have been … persuaded to let him go, instead of locking him up. His memories will begin to surface once he’s left alone. We must leave him alone, as well. Give him time.”
“Time.…” The word was a groan of anticipation. The Source laughed unexpectedly, a sound like flesh tearing. “In time, I’ll get everything I desire, Mundilfoere.”
She only smiled as she turned away, starting for the door; refusing to respond to his laughter. Let him wonder what she was smiling about, instead. He would never come close to imagining the truth.
8
They had let him go. Tree dressed himself, slowly and painfully, in the plain, dark clothing that someone—he had no idea who, or when—had supplied to replace the blood-soaked rags he had been wearing when he was brought in. Yesterday he had been told that he’d be leaving the hospital today … under arrest.
But today Jashari, as pitiless and inhuman as ever, had come to his room to tell him they weren’t going to hang him with the weight of all the dead around his neck, after all. Internal Affairs had changed its mind. Jashari hadn’t bothered to tell him why.
Tree fastened his Police-issue belt, the only part of his uniform he had been wearing on the night of the massacre, and the only thing that had survived it. He looked down at the Hegemonic seal on its buckle, rubbed the metal clean of a brownish-red stain, rubbed it until it shone. They’d let him go. But he was still a vigilante, and still tangled up in Blue: They’d suspended him from duty pending further action, taken away his right to wear even this much of his uniform.
His hands tightened over the worn leather. Fuck it—If they didn’t want him wearing the belt, they could come and take it off him.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, facing the stranger he had become: his black hair shorn, his dark eyes haunted, half his face still pied with fading bruises where it wasn’t covered with bandages. A synthetic matrix supported the shattered bone in his leg; he could feel it shift, maddeningly, inside him every time he took a step. He had stopped listening when the medical staff discussed the salvage job they’d done on him the night he’d been brought in, how many of his internal organs they’d had to clone.… Even with his pain receptors clogged by massive doses of analgesics, he felt as if his guts were held together with spit and razorwire.
Resisting the urge to lie back down on the bed, he picked up the reliquary from his bedside table and put the box carefully into his jacket. Less than an hour had passed since Jashari had given him the news. He hadn’t called anyone; hadn’t had the strength—emotional or physical—to deal with their response, even to good news. He left the Medical Center alone, unnoticed, and managed to walk the mercifully short distance home to Celadon Alley, and the rooms that he’d shared with Staun.
He climbed the narrow stairs to their apartment above the Newhavenese grocery, one halting, painful step at a time, sinking more deeply into the past with every step … reliving the first time he had climbed these stairs with Staun, their entire lives crammed into the duffel bags slung on their backs, and the dizzying pressure of an alien world underneath their feet … the grin on the face of their Tiamatan landlord as they struggled to communicate in a newly learned language. How Staun had sweet-talked the Newhavenese grocer’s wife into giving them dinner and three bottles of imported madreus, oh, you poor boys, so far from home.…
He pressed his thumb to the lock. Swallowing the urge to shout a greeting, or call out Staun’s name, he opened the door and went inside. He pushed the door shut behind him, resting his back against it until he could find the strength to go on. Remembering how the two of them had drunk and talked their way through that first interminable night, both of them sleepless in unsleeping Carbuncle.…
At last he started on down the hall toward his bedroom, glancing in as he passed the doorway of the single large room where they had cooked and eaten and passed the time with friends. He stopped, staring.
Somebody had been here. They’d been robbed—
No … somebody had been here, searching for something. The common room had been ransacked. The heavy native furniture lay overturned, and dried seahair from its cushions littered the floor. Electronic equipment was smashed open; every storage cubby in the kitchen alcove had been emptied out, food and utensils were strewn everywhere.
He moved numbly down the hall to Staun’s bedroom, to his own … seeing clothes and bedding piled ankle-deep on the floor around ruined mattresses. Even the bathroom was a reeking disaster of spilled medicine and smashed containers.
He made his way back to the common room and stood in its entrance, clutching a crushed tin of bitterroot chews that Staun had bought at the botanery down the alley on the day that they’d … that they’d.…
The tin dropped from his nerveless fingers as he raised his hands to his face. Shaking with helpless sobs, he slid down the wall to the floor.
* * *
Gundhalinu entered the Chief Inspector’s office, stopped short as he found Special Investigator Jashari already there. He took a deep breath and saluted both men stiffly, refusing to let even the unexpected presence of IA distract him from his purpose. “Chief Inspector, I want to know why Nyx LaisTree isn’t under arrest.”
“I know, Sergeant,” Aranne said irritably. “You have been making that quite clear to the entire station house.”
Gundhalinu held his gaze, tight-lipped.
“Do you know Special Investigator Jashari, from the Internal Affairs Division at the Judiciate?” Aranne’s voice was utterly toneless as he made the introduction.
“We haven’t met, sir.” Gundhalinu kept his expression guarded as he glanced at the IA investigator. Jashari’s patrician features were honed blade-sharp, as if the man led a personal life so ascetic he barely even ate. The starkness of his face gave him an almost predatory aspect; or maybe it was just the adamantine stare that met Gundhalinu’s gaze and passed habitual, unspoken judgment on him. Gundhalinu couldn’t help thinking how well the severe lines of a black Judiciate uniform suited the man. “I have seen the tapes of LaisTree’s questioning, however.”
“I take it you found my interrogation unsatisfactory,” Jashari said bluntly; and, when Gundhalinu stood speechless, “Well—?”
Gundhalinu rubbed his neck; realized that he was making a reflexive threat gesture, and hastily lowered his hand. “I found it … frustrating, sir.”
“So you went to the Medical Center, and interrogated LaisTree yourself.” The resentment smoldering in Jashari’s voice made the act a personal affront. “Did you honestly think a naive, untrained boy who sits behind a
desk all day, doing nothing of any importance, could get an amnesiac to give him answers that a veteran special investigator could not?”
“No, sir!” Gundhalinu shook his head vehemently. “It wasn’t like that at all. I … I encountered LaisTree by chance at the Med Center. I was there to take Inspector PalaThion home—” Dumbfounded by Jashari’s attack, he suddenly remembered PalaThion’s remark about clear consciences … and recognized Jashari’s hostility as a calculated preemptive strike.
He wondered what he had said or done to make the man so defensive. Because he had made the man defensive.… Perhaps Jashari simply regarded anyone who even spoke to LaisTree as invading his turf. Gundhalinu forced himself to remember that Jashari was only human, just like any other man, even if he did work for IA.…
He wasn’t sure whether realizing that left him feeling relieved, or simply worse. PalaThion’s vivid, anatomically impossible description of the Special Investigator flashed into his mind then, and forced him to bite his tongue so hard that his eyes teared.
“But still, you questioned LaisTree, without authorization,” Aranne said, his voice heavy with disapproval. Mercifully his real attention remained on Jashari: a visit from Internal Affairs could make anyone, even the Commander of Police, start counting his sins. “I understand you’ve been to the forensics lab, too,” Aranne went on. “And also asking to see the contraband seized as evidence from the warehouse—”
“Yes, sir.” Gundhalinu looked down.
“Are you assigned to this case, Sergeant?”
“No, Chief Inspector.” He felt himself flush, making his humiliation completely obvious to both of his superiors.
“Then explain yourself, before I put you on suspension.”
Gundhalinu raised his head. “After studying the reports on the … the massacre,” he swallowed painfully, “I found I still had … questions, about some of the details. I needed them answered, sir.”
“And also you’ve barely slept since that night, after what you saw at the warehouse.” Jashari’s gaze suddenly put him in stasis. “Am I right?”
Reluctantly Gundhalinu nodded, and rubbed his bloodshot, fatigue-bruised eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“You should be seeing a counselor—” Aranne began.
But Jashari held up his hand. “What are your questions, Sergeant? Tell me.”
Gundhalinu met Jashari’s stare again, feeling only relief this time, as he realized there was no longer any rebuke in the man’s voice. “Well … for one thing, why does the coroner’s report say that all the victims had on street clothing? No uniforms were mentioned. But I saw at least one uniformed body, Captain Cabrelle’s—” He turned back to Aranne. “Sir, you remember the pendant I picked up, after it fell from the body? The Survey symbol?”
Aranne nodded.
“Go on, Sergeant,” Jashari said, his expression unreadable.
“Captain Cabrelle’s very presence there doesn’t make sense to me.” Gundhalinu shook his head. “Why would Cabrelle be engaging in vigilante activity? He was a captain, a Kharemoughi, for gods’ sakes!” He looked up again. “It doesn’t fit. Something’s wrong with that picture.”
Aranne exchanged glances with Jashari. Jashari raised his eyebrows, and nodded.
“Sergeant, I’m afraid you put us in a difficult position.…” With a look of resignation, Aranne gestured him toward a seat. “You’re right. There is more to the warehouse massacre than what you saw in the official report. The vigilantes did not simply encounter unexpected criminal activity. They disrupted a Police action authorized by the Chief Justice, and executed by one of our own Special Ops teams.”
Gundhalinu sat down, not taking his eyes off the two men.
“We know that the Snow Queen skims some of the take from every mer hunt,” Jashari said. “She uses the water of life to acquire proscribed technology from the onworld criminal element. In the past we’ve let her get away with it, in part because we have the means to ensure that any equipment left behind at the Departure is nonfunctional … in part because she could, with very little effort, make obtaining the water of life virtually impossible for us.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.” Gundhalinu nodded. “But—”
“But,” Aranne said, “this time she was attempting to exchange the water of life for an experimental AI prototype stolen from a research center on Kharemough. It became a matter of Hegemonic security, so we intervened. The vigilantes disrupted an elite Special Operations team—you saw the results. Besides the terrible loss of life, we failed to recover the prototype. What makes the situation even more critical is that no one seems to know what became of the stolen tech. It’s missing.”
“Missing?” Gundhalinu said. “How is that possible?”
Jashari gave an unamused laugh. “I wish you could tell me that, Sergeant. We have convincing evidence that it wasn’t destroyed during the firefight. But what actually became of it seems to be a mystery, even to the criminals involved. It isn’t with the contraband we seized at the site. So where is it?”
“You think the vigilantes were after the stolen tech,” Gundhalinu murmured. “That their interference wasn’t accidental; this time they were planning a real crime?” He took a deep breath. “LaisTree…” At last he had an explanation for LaisTree’s behavior that actually made sense.
“Exactly,” Jashari said. “We let him go because we believe he’ll lead us to the missing prototype—one way or another.”
“And that will draw the criminals responsible for the massacre out into the open.” Gundhalinu leaned forward in his seat.
For a split second, Jashari’s face went as blank as if catching the killers had been the last thing on his mind. But then he nodded, murmuring, “Yes. Exactly. Now you’re seeing the big picture.”
“And since there seems to be no way to keep you out of this investigation, Gundhalinu,” Aranne said with a tight smile, “we have decided to add you to it. I want you to track LaisTree’s movements: who he sees, where he goes, what he does. Do not discuss your assignment with anyone on the force.”
Gundhalinu hesitated. “Does that include Inspector PalaThion, sir?”
“Yes, it does.”
He half frowned. “May I ask why, Chief Inspector? Inspector PalaThion is—”
“Newhavenese. So were all of the vigilantes,” Aranne said, glancing again at Jashari, “and you know how those people are about their own.”
“‘Loyal,’ sir?”
Jashari looked sharply at him. “Loyal, yes … to a fault. Confide in no one, and report only to Aranne, or to me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Gundhalinu rose from his chair, feeling completely alert and alive again for the first time since the night of the massacre.
“I hope you’ll answer your own questions, along with ours,” Aranne said. “Good hunting, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir. Special Investigator—” He saluted, and left the office.
* * *
“Well, what do you think?” Jashari turned to Aranne as the door of the office closed. “Will the patch hold?”
“I hope so. Gundhalinu could be very useful to us.” Aranne went on staring at the door as though he could see through walls. “You saw how quickly he catches on. He has a lot of potential—his record shows that he excelled at everything from deductive reasoning to marksmanship. He’s smart, resourceful, determined; he comes from the right background.…” He broke off, wary of pressing the point too hard.
“And he’s hardly more than a boy, Aranne,” Jashari said. “He may have simmed his way through a hundred virtual crime scenarios, but he’s never had to kill a flesh-and-blood human being. Look at how the massacre has affected him. In every way that matters, he’s a virgin … and completely moral.” Jashari grimaced. “He’s too rigid to understand the kinds of choices we may be forced into here. If he learns too much—”
“We attempted to exclude him,” Aranne said, with a flash of impatience. “We failed. Gundhalinu is involved in this, whether we l
ike it or not.”
“Then that leaves us with only two options, doesn’t it?” Jashari sat back, mating his hands fingertip to fingertip, a habit that Aranne found increasingly annoying. “Use him as you suggest … or remove him from play.”
“Sainted ancestors, this isn’t a game!” Aranne snapped.
A mirthless smile pulled at Jashari’s lips. “Of course it is; it’s the Great Game. The future of the Hegemony, and perhaps of Survey itself, depends on our securing that Old Empire artifact—and on making absolutely certain that the Brotherhood never lays hands on it.”
“How many more lies, how many more deaths in our own ranks, can we justify in Survey’s name, for gods’ sakes?” Aranne said angrily. “Where exactly does the line fall that separates Order from Chaos, and keeps us from becoming the enemy, all for the greater good?”
“I presume those are rhetorical questions,” Jashari said, his voice like acid. Seeing Aranne’s face freeze, he looked away abruptly. Aranne couldn’t tell what thoughts Jashari kept to himself, but the other man’s tone sounded grudgingly apologetic as he said, “Aranne, the gods know I’d rather use the boy than sacrifice him, too.… But I’ll still pay whatever it costs, to ensure that we win. And so will you.”
“This game has cost us a ransom in blood already.” Aranne pulled the chain bearing a silver star-and-compass out of the collar of his uniform. His fist tightened around the Survey symbol as he muttered, “It will be a bloody shame if it costs us any more.…”
9
In the dream he was always running … running away, fists clenched around a rock, or something he’d stolen, or nothing at all … fromintothrough a be-wilderness of ragelosspain … always running in circles back to the same inevitable, inescapable end—