III – The Lieutenant
Orsolya, Planet Haven
Black needles edged around inside the cracked glass face on the bedside table. Benedek Vantorout followed the slow rotation of the long hand, his eyes open and sore. Bedsprings dug in to Ben's side. His right arm, trapped beneath his head, tingled. 06:30. Ben slapped the alarm before it could trill and scooped his pocket chrono from the bedside table. Was that three and a half hours? Ben massaged his eyelids. Felt like three and a half minutes.
Floorboards creaked beneath Ben's bare feet. He winced and twisted the bedroom door handle. Behind and on the opposite side of the bed, a lump shifted and snorted. Easy… Ben slipped out of the bedroom and tiptoed along the landing to the bathroom. Beneath a weak bulb, Ben eased a razor around his jaw. He spun the worn taps and splashed cold water on his face and ran fingers through thin, close-cropped, black hair. Blood vessels stood out in his eyes.
Dirty plates, glasses, cutlery, and pans sat on the worktop and in the sink. Grime plastered the walls and mucky footprints coated the brown tiled floor. Ben tossed an Imperial Navy jacket over the back of a chair and drew it back from the kitchen table. He unscrewed the lid of a thin kettle and tipped it over the sink. Pieces of limescale streamed out with the day-old water. Still needs descaling. Ben opened a floor cupboard and searched for the descaler. Nothing.
A whistle grew to a piercing shriek. Alone at the table, Ben rested his head against clasped hands. A thump upstairs turned his eyes to the ceiling. Ben's heel tapped the tiles. Go back to bed, Kay. I don't want to do this now. Ben tossed a teabag in to a cracked mug and filled it. From behind a set of pipes running down from the sink, Ben plucked a palm-sized bottle. He shook two lozenges from the bottle and popped them in to his mouth before washing them down.
Orsolyan Planetary Guard Home Safe! Big black letters shouted at Ben from the previous day's newspaper. Lord General Kharkist's 85th Army Group made its triumphal march along the Avenue of the Emperor in honour of our Lord and saviour after returning from combat operations on the continent of Kolgono. The Lord General himself led the charge in to the enemy's final standing bastion, ensuring their complete annihilation and our planet's preservation.
Did he now? Ben spread jam over a bread crust. Or did he walk over his men's bodies to plant his flag for the pictures? Ben's sticky finger peeled the pages apart. Fifth win for Governor Jagoda in the planetary election! Cause of explosion in Seredina Shipyard accidental. Bicentennial minister gives sermon!
The hands on Ben's chrono crept up to a quarter to seven. He drained his tea, closed the paper, and carried his things to the sink. Fifteen minutes. Damn it. Ben leaned on the edge of the sink and straightened his arms. Wind rattled grimy panes above the sink. Sorry, Kay.
Stiff, grey collar cutting in to his neck, Ben slung his bag over one shoulder and unlocked a drawer. Inside, his service weapon, a pocket-sized Kondrat SR7 laspistol, lay wrapped up in a towel with its power pack. Ben slotted his sidearm in to his hip holster and put the power pack in his trouser pocket. A half mask respirator hung from a hatstand by the front door. Ben fitted the respirator and tightened the straps around the back of his head and set his cap on his crown and tilted the peak down. Ben's keycard hovered over the door lock. He drew back and looked up the stairs. "I'm—" Ben stuck his keycard in the slot. The strip light above the lock turned green and the door beeped and swung outwards. Never mind.
Ben walked down the path to the gate and headed along the street to the lockup. The faintest traces of yellow remained in the dawn light. Sealed hatches faced one another across a broad square. Ben dug in to his pocket and clicked his remote key. A lock spun and halves slid outwards. Oh, no. A drone hummed over the lockup and flew down to Ben. Red paint and an Adeptus Mechanicus skull coated the smooth, curving body. It split, and inside the shell circular lenses glinted. Ben lifted his chin and widened his eyes. Light shone in his right eye. The drone floated to Ben's left and scanned Ben's left eye.
Thank you… Ben scrunched his eyes shut once the light faded and rubbed them. The drone retreated and scooted away over the roofs. Ben ran a finger along the driver's door of a Siluvi S11 and opened it. A thin, white scratch cut through the light beige paint. Cold air bled from the Siluvi's heater. Ben rubbed his hands and twisted the ignition. Gravel crunched beneath the Siluvi's wheels. Ben hauled the Siluvi S11 around tight corners piled high with the local's uncollected rubbish and drove out on to Pesari Way, a two-lane road leading out of the Treskot district.
Flattened houses obscured by flapping tarpaulin fences ran along both sides of Pesari Way. Broken walls and foundations were all that stood in a three-kilometre-square area of Treskot. In the centre, the aft section of a warship protruded from the ground at a shallow angle and rose two-hundred and fifty feet in to the sky. Workmen, held inside barred cabins, piloted bright yellow construction walkers through gutted sections of the warship strewn across the crash site. Waste haulers hovered in the sky, their bowels filled with the plating ripped from the ship's hull.
Ben turned the dial of the car's onboard vox. The set wheedled. Ben slapped the face and switched it off then back on. Ahead of the Siluvi rose a steep, ferrocrete embankment with railway lines running along it. Ben unlocked the compartment beneath the dash, took a cloth from it, and wiped the inside of the windshield. Shaggy figures blundered along the tracks. Ben powered the vox down and downshifted. You're not supposed to be up there. Ben touched the brake. Six, seven, eight, nine. What on Haven are they…? The Siluvi passed beneath the low bridge and crawled along to the other end. Ben leaned forwards and peered out of the windshield. You had better not be pissing in balloons.
A body toppled over the rail and crashed on to Ben's bonnet. "GOD—!" Ben dragged the gearstick in to reverse and flung the Siluvi backwards. The body rolled off the front grill and hit the road surface and lay still. The motor whined in Ben's ears and, thirty feet back, he stamped on the brakes. The Siluvi slowed, jerked, and the engine cut. Ben's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. His mouth locked open beneath his respirator.
Filthy, rag-clad people tumbled down the smooth ferrocrete and loped at the body from both sides of the opening brandishing shivs, sharpened wood, nails, and chains. Ben rammed his palm against the horn. Long-haired heads flicked in the direction of the blast but did not divert their attention from their quarry. Ben fingers hooked around the flap of his holster and brought out the Kondrat. He pushed the power pack in to the empty housing beside the trigger-guard and opened his door. Muzzle pointed at the underside of the bridge, Ben touched the firing stud and flinched. Wood and iron fell to the road and the homeless scattered. Molten ferrocrete dripped from the ceiling and splashed the asphalt. Ben lowered the Kondrat and ducked inside the Siluvi and restarted the engine.
A gang feud? What are they doing so far from Lutufeyo? Ben kicked a chain away from the body, kneeled, and threw a nail out of the road. A grey, woollen cap covered a woman's head, and above that, a tightly-wound, blue scarf left only her face bare. Muck and grazes darkened it. Fresh cuts and older scars criss-crossed the skin. Ben slipped two fingers inside the scarf. Still breathing.
A car hooted and drove past the Siluvi. Ben jumped and twisted his head. God-Emperor! Ben holstered the Kondrat and dug his arms underneath the woman. "Ermph." The Siluvi's rear seats creaked underneath the woman's body. Ben shouldered the door shut and jumped in to the driver's seat. The chrono on the dash struck five minutes to seven. Ben adjusted the central mirror to face the woman. Ten minutes to Vermino hospital. Another ten to the office. Damn it.
Multi-layered habs with brown walls loomed over the four-laned road entering the Elek district. Smoke spilled from chimneys and clothing hung from washing lines draped across the gaps between buildings. Holographic advertisements cycled across banners. A drone hovered at a crossing Ben pulled up at to let traffic across. Nothing to see here. Ben's thumb tapped the steering wheel. His eyes flickered up to the mirror. The woman's right hand pattered at the seat. Hello… Two fingers and a thumb uncurled from a ratty, fingerless glove. Where the index and middle finger had been, there were two black stumps.
A horn blared behind Ben. He hunched his shoulders and jerked his head. A nerve twanged in his neck. "Agh!" Ben shunted the Siluvi in to gear and accelerated over the crossing. "Agh, God-Emperor…" Ben undid the topmost clasp on his collar and rubbed a finger inside. The woman's hand gripped the back of the front passenger seat and pulled herself up. A black load-bearing vest bare of pouches covered a red and blue windproof jacket with a broken zip. Two bloodshot, yellow eyes stared from the woman's filthy, sweat-covered face at Ben.
A twenty-four-wheeled lorry and its trailer roared past the Siluvi. Ben shivered and broke eyes contact with the woman. "Err… D—d—do you need medical assistance?" A red light came on next to the fuel gauge. "Oh, not now…" Ben changed lanes and slowed for an upcoming turnoff to a filling station. Two other cars had pulled off in front of him and nosed around a sweeping road that led behind the filling station. Ben steered the Siluvi in to a queue of four for the pump and switched off. "Um, I'm—I'm going inside to get a wet. Would you like something to drink too?" Ben adjusted his mirror. The woman sat back against the seat and lowered her eyes. Alright then. Ben reached down for a lever beside his right foot and unlocked the bonnet. The centre of it had crumpled inwards and jammed the latch holding it down shut. In to the garage with you then. Ben straightened up and smiled at the woman. A Guard scout car – a Wolf four-wheeled-drive – came to a stop behind the Siluvi, boxing it in. Satisfied the woman wasn't going anywhere, Ben entered the commissary facing the pumps and approached a dispenser.
Black recaf poured from a chugging dispenser and filled a disposable cup. Hot soup for her perhaps? Ben slotted a handful of credits in to the tray and pushed it in. Eight credits for the soup. Ouch.
"Skate." A pair of Planetary Guard subalterns strolled up behind Ben. Both wore fresh pips on their shoulder boards and bright yellow braid that stood out on their maroon tunics. Their own respirators hung from their necks.
"Crabby." Ben grinned at the two youngsters and sipped his recaf. "New to the mess?"
"Who's that gash in the back seat, Skate?" A compartment slid open.
"Hm?" Ben worked his respirator over his jaw and took the soup with his recaf.
"You pick her up off the street?"
"Little early in the week, isn't it, Skate?"
"Enjoy your wets, boys." Ben left the commissary and got back in the Siluvi. Soup and recaf balancing on the passenger seat, Ben nudged the Siluvi two spaces forwards then killed the engine. "Sorry." Ben twisted and laid his hand on his breast. "Benedek—Err." Ben tugged his respirator down. "Ben." Ben picked up the soup and placed on the seat next to the woman. "Can you understand me?"
The woman's eyes crept down to the soup. The three appendages on her right hand closed around the body. Her lips puckered and her arm trembled. Ben swivelled away from her. Poor thing. Ben touched the steering wheel but kept his index and middle finger extended. Strange how important just one finger can be. A slurp came from the back seat. Soup dribbled down the woman's chin. She held the cup in her undamaged left hand. Tough as well. That fall should have broken bones. Ben removed the lid from his recaf and stole a sip from the piping hot drink. Ouch. The tip of Ben's tongue grated around his teeth. Oh, shove off, you two.
One of the subalterns pulled a face at Ben's bonnet and knocked on his window. "Did she do that?" The other laughed.
Ben raised his recaf. The vehicle in front pulled in to the pumps, leaving a space for Ben. "Ah, that's me." Ben moved the Siluvi up to the pump where a servitor waited and wound his window down. "Fill her up, please."
"Yes, sir." The servitor clomped over to the Siluvi's fuel cap and thrust the nozzle grafted in to its arm in to the tank. A ribbed pipe trailing back to the pump pulsated.
Ben angled the mirror up, scanned the Wolf behind him, then returned to the woman. "Enjoying?" Ben smiled and sipped. The woman's scarf hung loosely from her neck, leaving her ears uncovered; pointed ears. "ARGH!" Ben dropped the cup and flapped his reddened hand. Recaf splattered the dash and front passenger seat. "No, no, no!" Ben dove at the cup and sat it upright. "Oh, God-Emperor, no."
The near-empty recaf in his hand, Ben sat the cup on the road and dug his fingers in to the gap between the rim of the bonnet and the car. God-Emperor. God-Emperor. Ben found the latch and pushed. "Please. Please…" The crumpled bonnet would not budge. God-Emperor. Ben slammed his hands on the bonnet.
"Final charge is seven seven point four Rako, sir. Will you pay here?"
Ben dug in to his wallet and passed the Rako over in recaf stained fingers. A tray in the servitor's stomach whirred outwards and accepted the money. "Thank you, sir. May I remind sir that breathing apparatus is mandatory when in open air. The Emperor protects."
"Emperor protects." Ben slumped in the driver's seat and started up and drove out of the filling station, back on to the Ariko circuit. Sticky recaf shone on the black dashboard and passenger seat. Cars overtook the Siluvi. One flashed its lights at Ben. Two minutes later, Ben peeled off Ariko and rode a slip way down to ground level. The streets narrowed until Ben stopped the Siluvi facing two steel bollards before a footpath and got out. A knuckle between his teeth, Ben strayed on to the footpath. Get out. Get out and run. Take the car. Just go!
A bin lid clattered. The lock on a gateway clacked. The Siluvi stayed quiet. Throne. Ben strode back to the Siluvi and opened the front passenger door. The xenos woman sat still in the back, the soup cup in her lap. Ben brought out a map of Orsolya and spread it over the bonnet. Elek district, just off Ariko Circuit. Ben's finger counted the number of junctions on the circuit before the turnoff nearest the Avramides district. Seven more junctions. Ten minutes to their enclave and ten minutes back. Ben scratched a spot on his chin. Then back on to the circuit to the office. One hour and a half minimum.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to turn you in." Ben shoved the map in to the Siluvi's compartment and closed it. "You've got an enclave on the other side of the city. I'll take you there." The Siluvi coughed and came to life. Ben placed his elbow on the back of his seat and steered the Siluvi out of the dead-end. "Gave me the fright of my life back there." The woman's shoulder hit the door. She winced. "Sorry." Ben eased off the accelerator. "Thank you for—for letting me know you're a—a—a—one of them. Probably best for both of us that I didn't take you to Vermino—ha-ha!"
Half an hour later, Ben left the circuit and made the descent to the Avramides district, leaving the towering blocks of the upper-class Gorev district behind. Bulging domes and pointed spires rose above white rooftops. Xenos plant life bloomed in terraced gardens. A thirty-foot-high wall bordered the district.
"I… think this is you here." Ben braked at a gate protected by an energy barrier. "Um…" Ben drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Hold on." Unlocking his door, Ben skirted the Siluvi and reached out for the barrier. Do I knock? The barrier hissed and rippled beneath Ben's hand. A rectangular feed appeared above Ben's head and a helmeted xenos came in to focus. "Err, good—good morning, sir. I have a…" Ben rushed to the Siluvi and opened the rear passenger door. "Ma'am?"
"Ashkam kal-av? Rrith!"
"I have—" Ben caught the xenos before she could tumble out of the Siluvi and hauled her arm around his shoulder. Thick cloth strips bound her feet. "I have one of yours here, sir. She requires medical assistance." The xenos faded and the barrier surfaced smoothed out. "…Please?"
The hum of the barrier died away and a section of the gate lifted from the road. Behind it, lights flickered on the rim of a semi-circular gateway. Inside it, a grey-blue cloud swirled. "Can you…? No, no you can't." Ben brought the xenos over to the gateway. A two-pronged muzzle shot from the cloud. Behind it came a slim xenos clad head to toe in bright green body armour. Two red eyes glinted in a white faceplate. Ben raised his free hand. "Please. Please, she needs help."
Two more armed xenos surged from the gateway and trained lasrifles on Ben. One lunged at Ben's holster and relived him of the Kondrat. "No-no, I am an Imperial officer!" Ben pointed at the crest on his cap. "Imperial Navy. I keep my service weapon. I keep my service weapon." A fourth xenos left the gateway and gathered the woman in its arms. "Please." Muzzles flicked at Ben. He raised his hands and backed away. The xenos disappeared one by one through the gateway and the light faded.
"Thank you…" Ben patted his empty holster and slipped the tab through the fastening bracket. On the way out of the Avramides district, Ben put on his respirator and wound down all four windows. How long was she out there then? One xenos. It doesn't make any—
Ben's foot jumped on the brake pedal. The Siluvi's tyres squealed. His body flew from the seat and hit the steering wheel. A woman in hooded red robes flew past the Siluvi's front grill and bounded on to the pavement. "Argh, God-Emperor…" Ben rubbed at his ribs and twisted the ignition. "Are you alright, ma'am?" Ben stuck his head out of the car.
"Yes-yes, fine!" The woman in red carried on without stopping. A bulging bag bounced on her hip.
Sorry I ran out in front of you. I promise I won't do it again. Ben stuck the Siluvi in gear and drove towards the circuit. No, not even that.
Sorry, sorry, sorry. Andalusia galloped away from the Siluvi and up some spiralling stairs leading up to a bridge over the road. God, I'm sorry. A dataslate fell from Lusia's arms. "Oh, shit." Lusia scooped up the slate and stuffed it back in to her bag. The zip had split. "Bollocks."
"Watch where you're going, Cog!"
"Sweary for a lady, aren't ya?"
Lusia weaved through three men strolling the other way. Lho sticks glowed and smoke shot from nostrils.
"Oi, how much d'you charge per hour, skinjob?"
Lusia clattered down the stairs at the opposite end of the bridge, jumped the last three, and hit the ferrocrete. Steam gushed from beneath the skirts of a bus pulling away from a shelter. Abhumans perched on boards on the bus's sides and clung to overhead bars. No-no-no-no-no. Lusia caught up to the bus at an automated traffic signal before a three-way crossing in the shade underneath the Ariko Circuit and banged on the door. Beneath the pane were the words: Driver is armed and carries no cash. Behind bullet-resistant plexiglass hunched the driver. Tubes running from the bus's onboard systems plugged in to his spine, neck, and brain. An opaque helmet with a bulbous visor turned to Lusia and shook.
"Come on!" Lusia slapped her palm on the glass. "You're not even moving!"
"Ride the board with the rest of us, love," said an abhuman. "We won't judge."
"Oh, yeah. Thanks!" Lusia scurried down to the tail and around the engine. Fumes stung her eyes. An OSEC patrol vehicle next to the bus blasted its siren at her. "Halt."
Oh, you're joking… Lusia stepped away from the bus and raised her hands. The driver's compartment slid out of the body and a man in blue plate and an armoured cap got out. Circular ear defenders covered his ears, a blank visor obscured his eyes, and a miniature respirator his mouth. A black glove rested on a collapsible baton on his belt. "Step in to the compartment, citizen."
The bus pulled away from Lusia. Traffic edged around the patrol car and drove off. The compartment behind the driver's slid out and the hatch swung upwards. "Bag. Any offensive weapons on your person?"
Just my language. Lusia lifted the strap over her head. "No, officer."
"Step inside the car."
The hatch closed over Lusia and the compartment returned to the main body. Locks clicked and shutters came down over the windows, blocking out the light. Two cogitator screens embedded in a blank wall separated her from the driver's compartment. Both came to life when the engine started. "Recite your base ID and factory serial. Look to the screen and do not blink."
My serial…? Don't even remember that. Lusia tugged her mask down and wet her lower lip. "Um…"
"In your own time, recite your base ID and factory serial, citizen."
"A—A—Andalusia van Callet. Enginseer Class Two—" The patrol car swerved. Lusia slipped from the seat and her shoulder cracked against the partition. "Ow! What the—?" The car's motor wound down and the cogitators went black. "Hello?" Lusia knocked on the partition. Her compartment popped and the hatch opened. The officer stood next to the ferrocrete barrier with his hand resting on the butt of his holstered service weapon. "I'm not carrying much cash." Lusia spread her arms. "My annual is—"
"Andalusia van Callet? Are you the Andalusia van Callet?"
Lusia's raised hands came down to shoulder height. "…Yeah."
The officer's visor retracted. The corners of his grey eyes crinkled. "Never! The real Andalusia van Callet in my spinner." The officer yanked his glove off and thrust out his arm. "I've got to shake your hand. God-Emperor, seeing those SCO-7s on the street corners puts the bounce back in my bungee – in all of our bungees—ha-ha!"
"Oh, er… pleasure." Lusia shook the officer's hand. "Glad to be of assistance to the state."
The officer slapped Lusia's arm. "Oh, you've been more than an assistance. The God-Emperor himself could have sent those drones. Ho-ho! Automated surveillance on every corner. Who'd have thought it."
"G—glad to be of assistance. Sorry I ran in front of traffic." Lusia reached inside her hood and brushed strands of hair away from her eye. "Bit of a rush, this morning."
"Oh. Oh, do you need to be somewhere?"
"I'm—I'm presenting an upgrade for the SCOs at Bouaziz Plaza."
"When?"
"Err, now."
Lusia clung to an overhead hold and braced the heel of her boot on the dash. Vehicles swerved before the wailing patrol car. "My notepad in the compartment…"
"Notepad? Don't you have slates for that sort of thing?"
"Ahh, call me old-fashioned then. I like hard copies." The officer popped the dash compartment open. "Is there a pencil in there?"
"Now you're arresting me. Is that it?" Lusia pulled out a blunt pencil.
"Ovaiz van der Beek. 314-2239-7." Ovaiz flashed his lights at a fuel bowser blocking the car. "Come on, come on."
"Err…" The blue nub circled over the pad. "Business or…?" Lusia's brows jumped.
"Oh, God-Emperor no!" Ovaiz swerved around the bowser and shoved the accelerator in to the floor. "I've got a ball and chain clinging to this ankle. She is not to be crossed! In four months, it'll be a little ball and chain too. Been trying for years."
"Oh, that's sweet." Lusia scribbled Ovaiz's name and number. "Do you want me to sign?"
"Hah! No, it's for you." Ovaiz grinned. "If you're ever in a tight, call me on the Public."
Lusia tore the note and folded it in half. "If I don't have access to a Public?"
"Well, you do, don't you? The same way you have that artificial HUD. It's alright, I'm not one of those officers. Honestly, half the folk in our pen don't belong there. Not in a million years. The other half—heh—they do. It's telling the decent folk apart from the villains. Even then, would you call a tax-dodger a villain?"
Lusia brought her bag up from the footwell and sifted through the slates. "So, how does your detective's eye regard an Enginseer Class Two?"
"Detective? I'm a few rungs off that yet. I'm only on my second year of uniformed patrol. Another year and a half and maybe I'm considered for plainclothes. Probably two years." Ovaiz clicked his indicator and pulled off the circuit and on to a spiralling slipway leading down to ground level. "Three minutes to Bouaziz. No, I don't think you're bad people."
"But if I wasn't who I am—if I was little people—you'd have still run me in."
"Hah, okay I may have jumped the gun a little there. You looked a rogue at first glance."
"Well, you never know. You haven't heard me swear yet."
"Haw! A foul-mouthed tech-priestess. We're off to a great start, this millennium."
"You know, I can and will swear all I want—I'm just a Lofass Enginseer."
"A damned good one, I'll say."
"Let's let the SCOs answer for that." The patrol car shot in to a tunnel and dodged through the three traffic lanes leading to the city centre. A holographic sigh flashed past. You are now entering the Gorev district, the heart of New Orsolya.
"If that heart has a coronary," Ovaiz said. "Soon be there."
The road left the tunnel and rushed the patrol car past sky-buildings attached to the underbelly of the upper district; an artificial roof eleven kilometres wide and leaving the whole of Gorev in permanent shade. A statue of the planetary governor stood in the centre of Bouaziz Plaza upon a pedestal in a fountain. Winged vermin scattered before the patrol car zipping across the smooth surface. "Blasted things." Ovaiz swerved the car and brought it to a stop at the foot of some steps leading up to the doors of a sky-building. "There you go."
"Well, thank you kindly, officer." Lusia brought her mask up to her jaw and swung out of the compartment.
"Halt!" An OSEC standing on the edge of the deserted plaza marched over to the car. "Have you business with Orsoylan Security?"
"Madam van Callet had business with me." Ovaiz leaned out of his window. "Case shut."
"Right…" The faceless OSEC twirled his baton and flicked it at Lusia. "Move along, Cog."
Ovaiz gave Lusia a wave and a smile. Lusia smiled back and ran up the stairs. Slates knocked against one another inside her bag.
"What the fuck are you doing letting a skinjob ride side-by-side?" The OSEC bent over Ovaiz's car.
Skinjob! Used to be they were the flesh-bags. Lusia positioned herself in front of a retinal scanner and leaned in. Light stung her eye. Ow! Why aren't the dimmers working?
"Welcome, Enginseer Class Two van Callet. You are twenty point four minutes late for your meeting on the eighty-ninth floor."
"Yeah, thanks." Lusia pressed her palm in her eye and hurried through the doors. Naked ferrocrete columns ran along both sides of an atrium. OSEC in full facemasks, bearing long-arms stood in the four corners. A servitor, wired to cogitators and bolted to the floor, manned a desk in the centre of the atrium.
"Name, affiliation, purpose," it warbled.
"Enginseer Class Two Andalusia van Callet, Adeptus Mechanicus Department of Research and Development, Haven Division. Here for the steering group on the eighty-ninth floor." Lusia lowered her mask.
A tray holding a laminated pass attached to a lanyard shot forwards beneath a cogitator behind the servitor. Bones cracked and the servitor spun a full 180 degrees and swiped the pass. "You are twenty-one point—"
"Twenty-one minutes late. Yeah, thanks for the reminder." Lusia hooked the lanyard over her head and made for the turbolifts at the far end of the atrium. Please be working. Haven't got time to mess with stairs. Doors squeaked apart. Lusia hopped over the gap and jabbed the button for the eighty-ninth floor.
"Thought of the day: Faith shall carry…" Static bled from the turbolift's ceiling.
Not very far by the sounds of it. Lusia whisked her hood down and lifted a dataslate from her bag. Itinerary for today… Lusia bit the finger of a glove and pulled it off. Her thumb touched the base of the blank screen. An AdMech skull spun and green light shone. Lusia blew dirt away and wiped a cloth across the screen. SCO-9 demonstration and rollout date. Lusia stuck her glove in a pocket and bit her thumbnail. Were rollouts discussed last month?
"Eighty-ninth floor. Trust only in the Emperor."
Polished wooden panels ran along the walls of the eighty-ninth floor. Fresh carpets squished beneath Lusia's soles. Old-fashioned bulbs glowed inside glass shades. "Can I help you, madam?" A low-ranking administrator looked up from behind a desk outside the floor's main conference chamber.
"Enginseer Class Two van Callet. I'm expected in there."
"Van Callet…" The administrator swung his chair over to his cogitator and unlocked the screen. "Do you have a pass? I'll need to stamp."
"I do." Lusia lifted her pass over her head and passed it over.
"Thank you, madam." The administrator plunged a stamp on to Lusia's pass and handed it back. "If you could hand me your bag, you can go on through."
"Thank you." Lusia set her bag on a counter. "Any objection if I bring my slate in? I am demonstrating."
"Could you please disable all RF transmissions first?"
"Of course."
"Could I check?"
"Yeah." Lusia passed the slate over.
"Very well. You can go through." The administrator reached under his desk and pressed a button. Wooden double doors flanked by pillars swung inwards. Inside the tall conference chamber, a dozen men and women sat at a transparent table meant for forty.
"Congratulations, Enginseer, you are the last to join us this morning." A glass clinked and a slender wrist withdrew inside a wide, purple sleeve with gold trim on the cuff. Vaisha Shimago, brown-skinned and bald, draped her arm over the back of her chair and twirled her wrist. "Please, sit."
"Madam Shimago." Lusia sat herself between an Enginseer and a high-ranking OSEC officer. "I was expecting the old man to show. Is he well?"
"That's Mister Shimago to you, Enginseer. And most upset he will be knowing you made all these fine people wait on you, and only you."
"Ah, Madam Shimago?" A military man in blue-grey fatigues, bare of insignia or decoration, spun a beret of a similar shade on his finger. "My commanding officer is still to show."
"What?" Madam Shimago thrust her sleeve back and turned her arm over. Blue light shone from implants in her wrist. "Twenty-eight minutes in and nothing intelligent has dribbled out of any of your mouths!"
Wind lifted strands of Lusia's hair. Behind her, leather creaked. Thank the Emperor for that.
"Obrist." The officer rose.
Obrist? Lusia's shoulders twitched. Her stomach clenched.
"Gentlemen and ladies, I apologise for my absence." A scarred, wrinkled man wearing a bright red beret screwed on to his grey head, limped past Lusia and around the table. An unbelted greatcoat sat on the shoulders of a uniform identical to that of his subordinate. Grey stubble covered his jaw and a cataract whitened his left eye. "Madam Shimago." The Obrist shrugged off his coat, folded it, and laid it on the back of an empty chair. "So sorry your father could not make it."
"Well, now our ranks are filled, we can commence. You know me, you know my father, and you know our enterprise. The gentlemen in grey are Obrist Robert Bertel Holbein and his 2IC Major…?"
"Kreber, ma'am."
Lusia scrunched up the material around her knee. Warmth spread across her back. A lump arose in her throat. Milky fluid ran down from her bare eye-socket. Broken wires stuck out of an eyeball held to the table by a knife. Fire engulfed her body.
"The Obrist and the major are here on behalf of the Urgraf Quenets, who my father has recently entered in to a partnership with."
"May we inquire as to your trade, sir?" A Planetary Defence Marshal twiddled a stylus in his fingers.
"Solutions. We offer solutions to our client's problems," said the Obrist.
"Security, Marshal."
"Are your own people no longer up to standard, Madam?"
"That is not a matter the PDF need concern themselves with. Let us continue around the table. The ladies and gentlemen representing the city council. "Will you kindly introduce yourselves?"
Muscles spasmed in Lusia's jaw. Thumps grew louder in her ears. The table tipped sideways.
"Ma'am, are you well?" The OSEC on Lusia's right reached for a glass pitcher.
"Mm." Lusia's fingers closed around the cool glass. She tipped it back and swallowed. Her eyes shot sideways to the Obrist. Needles pierced her gut. Representatives from the planetary government, the city council, O-SEC, and the PDF each introduced themselves until it left only the three Enginseers unannounced.
"Late rising this morning, Enginseer?" Madam Shimago's long fingernails clacked on the table.
"Sister?" The Enginseer next to Lusia muttered.
"Er—van Callet. Enginseer Class Two van Callet." Lusia's eyes flitted around the watching faces but did not go near the Urgraf men.
"Here for…?"
"The—the steering group. I am…" Lusia placed her dataslate on the table and straightened it. "…Er, presenting the newest—the newest model of the Shimago-Callet Aerial Observation Vehicle – the SCO line for those who have only joined us today." Lusia sucked air in to her dry throat.
"Well, that's as good enough a reason for us to be here, wouldn't you say, Major?" The Obrist stretched his arm out and dragged a bowl laden with birri truffles over.
"I would, Obrist."
"Then toot on, I say." The Obrist tossed a truffle up and caught it. "Madam."
Lusia's hands slipped below the edge of the table and clamped between her legs. The two other Enginseers introduced themselves to the conference, then control returned to the Steerer, Madam Shimago. "The God-Emperor permitting, we shall commence the steering group on this fourth week of our coming together. Carry on, Admech."
"Sister? You are up."
Lusia rolled her chair back and took her dataslate with her to a flat screen dominating the front of the room. The windows along the south-facing wall dimmed the incoming light. A section of table parted and a projector slid to the surface. Okay, okay… Lusia sent a handshake to the Shimago device. Dots scrolled across her screen. Come on. Connect, damn you. The Obrist cleared his throat. The dataslate shook. Lusia wiped her warm fingers on her robe and tapped the screen. Fingerprints marked a bright green concept of a drone, along with the basic specs. These then translated to the main screen.
"Ever since the production and deployment of the 0-7s last summer, my team and I have been working on the next iteration of the SCO Project." Lusia spun a laser pointer at the drone onscreen. "The 0-9, as you can see…" Lusia tapped her screen. A second drone appeared beside the first. "Size-wise, the 0-9 is identical to the 0-7. All our improvements have been focused on internals. Where the 0-7s could be deployed for four-hour periods, we have our 0-9 pre-production running upwards of thirty-seven hours, and not just stationary within a sterile environment, but out on the streets, with wind, rain, and general air pollution a factor in our endurance trials. Any—any questions so far?"
"Does the 0-9 have facilities for onboard weapons?" A PDF marshal sucking on a cigar lifted a finger.
"Mmm, exactly the issue we were wondering, Enginseer," the Obrist said.
"Weapons have not yet been discussed, Obrist," said Madam Shimago. "Why don't we learn to walk before we start running?"
"Er, Madam Shimago, the SCOs were never meant—"
"Sorry, could I ask, if no anti-tampering devices have been considered, how do you intend to prevent vandalism or a possible hijacking?" An Adeptus Arbites rep said.
"The—um—we have kept the SCOs as streamlined as possible, Arbitrator. No sharp edges to grasp. They operate at a minimum altitude of twenty feet."
"And what of EM-shielding or protection in a biological environment? We are still under planetary mandate that respirators are to be worn at all times outdoors. If it could harm us, it could harm your little robots. We should be fearful of what a haywire construct could do."
"Concern appreciated, Arbitrator," Madam Shimago said. "Greater NBC protection and an onboard anti-tampering system shall be marked priority for the 0-9s." She nodded at Lusia. It will.
"But you can't hurt anybody with anti-tampering measures if they don't first attack the drone." Crumbs shot from the Urgraf major's mouth. "We want to put the fear of Shimago and Urgraf in the proletariat."
"In the infiltrators and the saboteurs the enemy left behind last summer." The Arbitrator closed his fist and squeezed.
"Oh, a criminal on every corner isn't it, Arbitrator?" The PDF marshal smirked.
"Allowances for countermeasures have not yet been considered, Arbitrator, Major. Models 5 through 9 are simply to produce a reliable and remotely-operated surveillance vehicle with endurance and adequate video and sound-capturing. We want to be able to look and to listen before we get the guns out."
"What is the purpose of…? Is that bright paint underseal?" A city official sneered.
"Mm. Rather overt, don't we think?" Her colleague said.
"I believe in making our intents transparent. We want your ordinary citizen instantly made aware of the surveillance. We've just survived an invasion and a bombing – of course the planetary government will be watching. And what better than to make everyone aware of it. Honesty, transparency. Madam Shimago, with your permission, I would like to focus on our partnership, and the benefits it will bring to the SCO Project."
"Of course. Carry on, Enginseer."
"Hand in hand with SCO is Motherhood." Lusia swiped her screen. A map of Orsolya exploded upon the screen. Red blips dotted every one of the city's nine districts. "Gentlemen and ladies, please observe this concept. Courtesy of Shimago Corp, we propose forty-seven hubs across the city for the 0-9s. These will act as charging stations as well as protection in extreme weather conditions and will house up to fifteen drones. Each hub will be seamlessly integrated in to existing sky-buildings. Shimago will handle the leasing from the current lessors."
"So, does the Property Owners Association know that you plan on performing construction on their buildings?"
"You represent Orsolya's council! It's not in POA's power to object to anything you say." The Arbitrator brought his fist down on the table. Glass rattled.
"This is a glass table, Arbitrator," Madam Shimago said. "Unless you'd like to conduct business from the floor…"
"Er, will it be OSEC in charge of operation as usual?" The OSEC next to Lusia's seat raised his hand. "My officers would very much welcome the upgrade package. We are having difficulty maintaining stakeouts with the current four-hour lifespan."
"HAH!" The PDF marshal rolled his cigar around his mouth. "I'd love to review the monthly crime statistics with you, Judge. Let's see how they compare to the stats from last month. Why don't you give my defence officers the reins? A little field trial comparing the efficiency of OSEC and PDF handling—hmph-hmph." The marshal's bulging cheeks shone. "I'll show you percentages."
"We have cells filled to the point of overflowing, Marshal," a city official said. "As do Zineviciene and Iqval. We are having to ship the convicted off-world to other facilities."
"Bloody waste…" The Arbitrator tapped his armoured knuckles on the tabletop. "Exterminate them all."
"You're talking about human beings, Arbitrator!"
"Purge the mutant anyway. There are enough of them crying out for jobs and for income, squatting in our streets. Intern, I say! Intern in bars and wire and throw away the key."
"Hear-hear!"
Lusia pulled a chair back and flopped in it and propped her chin in her hand. Madam Shimago slid a plate filled with chocolate biscuits across to Lusia. Lusia shook her head. I think the time for sensible discussion has passed. I'm done here.
Thirty minutes of bickering later, Lusia handed her pass over to the administrator outside the conference chamber and took her bag from a shelf. The Arbitrator walked past her without a word. The PDF officers and the OSEC judges kept apart too.
"I will be in touch, Enginseers." Madam Shimago bustled by. "I want to see NBC protection and designs for weapons by the end of the month."
The month? Lusia slid her fingerprint-covered dataslate in to her bag.
"Madam?" The administrator offered Lusia her pass.
"Thank you." Lusia slung her bag and hung the pass around her neck.
"Enjoy the rest of your day."
"I… Hmm."
Turbolift doors parted. Lusia stepped over the gap and stabbed the ground floor button. Come on, come on. Wheels rattled and the doors slid towards each other. A hand shot through the gap and gripped the edge. The Obrist heaved the door open and entered the turbolift with his major. He smiled at Lusia and moved to the back of the turbolift. "Oh, wonderful presentation, Madam Enginseer. I feel these drones are a tremendous step forward for us."
"Yeah, shame about that Arbitrator. Couldn't get a word in edgeways."
Numbers ticked down. Lusia's hand tightened around her bag's strap. Boot leather creaked. A lighter snicked open and a cigarette poked over Lusia's shoulder.
"Anyone might think I'd drawn on you." The cigarette wiggled. "Did I draw a sidearm on you?"
"Looks like a fag to me, Major. Maybe don't offer before asking first. Would the lady like a smoke?"
"No, thank you."
The cigarette withdrew. "Did I lay hands on you? No, I don't think so. Did I lay hands on her, Obrist?"
"No, Major, you did not." Smoke wisps drifted around the turbolift. "I… I really should have asked this in the meeting, madam, but these—these drones, they are entirely human-operated, aren't they? It's not a question that really needs answering, but I'd sleep safer if I knew there weren't constructs operating independent of human input around."
"Madam? Answer the Obrist."
"Entirely human-operated."
"When you answer the Obrist, you say Obrist, sir."
"Major, Major, why don't you enjoy your smoke?"
"Address the Obrist—"
"—Enjoy your smoke!"
"Ground floor. Look to the person beside you and ask yourself, does their loyalty extend to themselves or to the Emperor?"
"Madam." The Obrist touched the band of his beret.
"I never had a problem with their kind, you know. Never had a problem."
"Oh, good luck with your project. I hope to see you again soon." The Obrist and the major left the turbolift and crossed the atrium floor to the doors.
"The water closet?" Lusia stopped by the servitor.
"To your left. Fourth door then second right. Have a pleasant day, mistress."
Black doors parted before Lusia. Light reflected off the floor. Polished taps gleamed. Lusia pushed at each door along the row, reached the end, dropped her bag, and dived in to the stall and fell on her knees over the bowl.
Steaming water rushed over Lusia's trembling, reddened hands. Bastard. Bloody bastard. She turned her eyes to the woman in the mirror. Eurgh. Lusia wiped the backs of her fingers across her wet chin. She leaned over the sink and ran her hand down her cheek. Skinjob.
Fire poured over Lusia's shoulders, engulfed her plasteel skin, and ate away at her robes. Lusia shoved the tip of her thumb in her mouth and bit. She squeezed her eyes shut and shivered. Tank fluid coated her body. Tubing protruded from her arms and legs. Skinjob. Lusia ripped paper towels in half and dried her cheeks and chin. She blew her nose, dumped the crumpled towels in to a bin, picked her bag up, left the toilets.
Lutufeyo district, Orsolya
Raindrops edged along the tinted window. One fell inside and landed on Richard Sorge's sleeve. Wind whisked the warm smoke from the inside of the Kapla staff car and out in to the early morning air. The front passenger wheel thudded in to a pothole, jolting Sorge and Innes Barakat in the back seats.
"Urgh, bloody streets." Barakat hooked his hand around an overhead grip.
"Sorry, sir," the driver said.
"Somebody should clean this district up—er, no thank you, Richard." Barakat waved away an offered cigarette. "Don't know how you do it so early."
Sorge stubbed his butt in the Kapla's ashtray and wound up the window. Crumbling buildings – bare ferrocrete – rolled past the Kapla's windows. Sagging washing lines dragged over the roof. Water splashed in the gutter. Beneath a ferrocrete colonnade supporting the lowest tier of a half-constructed sky building, bright yellow tape shone. Plastic walls flapped. OSEC patrol vehicles were parked nose to nose at the far end of the street and uniformed officers stood guard around the scene.
Sorge nudged the peak of his cap down and moved through the screen door held open by an OSEC officer. Men in white suits and full-face respirators took shots of a body lying on its back. A sheet covered its head and upper body. A long-haired, bearded man in a tatty raincape and footwraps perched inside the back of an ambulance parked half on, half off the road. He wore no breathing apparatus.
"Sergeant." Sorge stepped past a cordon surrounding the body.
"Mind your feet, sir." The plainclothes aimed a finger at a smaller cordon around a plastic bag held down by traffic cones.
"Well?"
"Cardosa, sir. One of ours." The plainclothes slapped a bloodstained military identity card in Sorge's glove.
Cardosa, Simeon R. Sorge passed the ID back to the plainclothes. "Bag it with the rest."
"Any surveillance on this street, Sergeant?"
"Nothing static. I dunno about those new drone-things they've got flying."
"What about witnesses?"
"None at TOD, sir. A driver on a refuse-hauler found the body an hour ago."
"Cause?"
The plainclothes loped over to the smaller cordon and shoved a cone away with his toe. "Sir?"
"The murder weapon?" Sorge squatted.
"No, sir." The plainclothes lifted the bag up.
"What in the God-Emperor's name…?" Barakat placed his hands on his knees and bent over.
"That's his jaw, sir."
Barakat clapped his hand over his respirator and dove for the screen door. Sorge let the bag fall and shoved the cone over the edge. "Well, where is it?"
"Sir?"
"Las or plasma burns?"
"No, sir."
"Empty casings?"
"No, sir." The plainclothes toed the cone. "Just that."
"Stab wounds?"
"No, sir."
Sorge straightened up. "This didn't happen."
"He's one of us, sir. Tell me what doors need kicking in, I'll be there."
"None of this gets out. Just another nobody."
"Nine nobodies this past month, sir. Never done with a weapon."
"Gang violence—er, why was I not informed of the other eight?"
"Eight nobodies, sir—vermin."
"None of this gets out."
The plainclothes launched a globule of spit at split binbags. "Sir."
Barakat leaned on the Kapla's boot lid, a dirtied tissue clutched in his hand, and the collar of his greatcoat upturned. His respirator hung from his neck. "I've seen it. I'm involved."
"Yeah, Innes, you are involved." Sorge fished a cigarette out and stuck it behind Barakat's ear. "And I'm all the better for it."
"Huh?" Barakat swiped the cigarette.
"Second opinions." Sorge shielded his lighter from the drizzle. "Come on. First of the day wakes you up."
"Second takes the pain away." Barakat touched the tip of his cigarette against Sorge's and placed it between his lips. "Ahhh."
"Not a gang dispute, this one. Maybe the other eight could be passed off, but now it's one of us."
"Didn't we just finish one fight?"
"Apparently not. Do you know how much force it takes to physically part a human's jaw from their skull?"
"Richard, I don't—" Barakat's hand shot up. "I don't—look, I am tired, I haven't washed or shaved or eaten." Barakat grasped the Kapla's door handle and pulled. "Let's—let's talk in the car."
"Stay out here, Innes."
"Richard!"
"The driver's on a payroll."
"Bloody…" Barakat shut the door. "So, tell me what else. What else did your man pick up?"
"What I've told you, old boy. The Bureau is now involved in a murder case." Sorge sucked in smoke.
"Why? OSEC is all over this one. Let them handle this."
"And OSEC will notify the Admiral and it'll come straight back to us. We are involved."
"I wish…"
"You wish what?"
"For a stabbing, a shooting incident, any ritualistic horror involving blood! Now we've got this." Barakat flicked his cigarette away. "I'm tired, Richard."
"Er, they're Moronokes, Innes."
"I don't care how much they cost." Barakat opened the Kapla's passenger door. "I'm tired."
Sorge slid in on the other side. "We're comfortable with our boundaries, Innes, but I am still your commanding officer."
"I know, I'm all the better for it." Barakat tapped his knuckles on the door's panel. "What is it to you though, Richard? He wasn't even of any significance. Now we're looking over the pit, wondering whether to jump."
"Innes, it's our job—"
"Our job is applying intelligence those men out there risk their lives for!"
"Innes." Sorge wagged a finger. "Back to the office, driver."
"Yes, sir."
Sorge tapped his forefinger on his thigh. Old Morse.
Cannot concentrate. Barakat tapped back.
"Good. Splendid." Sorge opened his window a crack for the smoke to blow out.
"Dead at ninety-four, Richard."
"Won't see me objecting, Innes. I'll have done everything I need to do within the next forty years. In the ground before I've turned grey. Preferably in bed too. Even better if it's someone else's."
"Rogue."
"Better a rogue than a blasted Emperor-botherer. Those machine-fetishists too, they can have their jaws ripped off as well."
"Ah, his jaw's come off. I'll just get him a new one."
"Heh." Sorge threw his own cigarette out of the window. "Tell a lie. These Moronokes aren't much cop. And there's not a single Tobacconist on this Emperor-forsaken world. That'd be the end of all things, Innes, if the enemy overran our last Tobacconist bastion."
"So, it isn't nicotine and bullets that fuel the Imperium?"
"Misinformation, Innes. Tobacco and caffeine." Sorge's thumb rubbed the bronze badge on his cap.
"Well, I dare say that keeps you chugging, Richard. I don't know about everything else."
"Actually, you're right. It's neither."
"What then?"
Sorge stared out of his window at the slum. "Just bodies."
The Kapla left the muddy tracks of Lutu behind and bumped on to a metalled road travelling in to Greater Orsolya from the east. Civilian traffic brought the Kapla to a crawl. Weak sunlight filtered between the sky buildings outside Upper Gorev. At a three-way junction, the Kapla peeled south, away from the mass commute, and skirted the outskirts of Lower Gorev to the Elek district; a borough of mostly shorter buildings built of old, grey bricks and covered in thin tiles.
"Forget bloody Lutu. Give us proper streets." Sorge winced at a white-washed wall passing less than a foot away from the Kapla's wingmirror. If he shears a mirror off, I'm taking his notice.
"Ahh, glamorous Elek." Barakat grinned at a five-storey building occupying a deserted building site home to empty construction mechs, open-topped waste containers, and portable cabins. Brown, plastic sheets, nailed to scaffolding supports, flapped and crackled. Wind howled down chutes. Muddy water sprayed the Kapla's body.
"Your turn, Innes."
"Err, right." Barakat tugged his respirator on and got out. Mud rode up the back of his trousers. Drizzle stained his shoulders. Two wooden stakes held a tall windbreak obscuring a vehicle-sized opening in the building. Barakat twisted the stakes out and dragged the windbreak across. The Kapla churned through the mud and rolled down a slope. Barakat replaced the stakes in the ground and followed the Kapla down a tunnel leading beneath the building.
"Fancy a brush down, Innes?"
"Shove it, Richard." Barakat slammed his door. "…Shoes are ruined."
The mud-streaked Kapla climbed out of the tunnel, asphalt now beneath its wheels. A steel gate and barbed wire halted the Kapla at the mouth of the tunnel. The gate buzzed and slid sideways and the Kapla drove in to a courtyard. The inner-facing walls of the half-constructed building overlooked another building hiding inside; one of equal height. Thick grills were bolted to the windows of the ground and first floor and spikes lined window ledges.
"Recaf, Innes?" Sorge hopped out of the Kapla and flashed a card at a convex lense embedded in the wall next to the door.
"God, yes." Barakat flashed his own ID and followed Sorge inside. A narrow hallway without doors or windows in the walls led to stairs and lifts at the back of the building. A yellow warning sign stood over a wet patch of floor. An out of order sign was plastered over a drink dispenser. Sorge thumped the glass and flicked his middle finger at it. Barakat snorted.
The lift doors opened on the fourth floor and Sorge and Barakat walked out in to a space entirely open. Thirty uniformed personnel sat at small desks behind cogitators, all within view of one another. Eyes strayed away from screens and fingers froze on keyboards. A lowly petty officer, walking towards Sorge and Barakat down a row, veered away and lowered his eyes. Mugs paused between coaster and mouths.
An iron staircase painted green led upwards to the Fifth. Overhead strip lighting baked the dull reddish-brown floor. Arched, glass panels making up the ceiling admitted a fraction of the light from outside. Grey offices, windowless and with only a single doorway in and out, stood on stilts around the Fifth. Inside, soundproof material lined the walls. Sorge and Barakat passed them all by and followed a lighter strip of red on the floor to a small office with glazed windows in the far corner. Letters printed on the door read: V. Adm L. Curzon. Sorge and Barakat removed their caps and hung their greatcoats on hooks outside the office. Sorge knocked on the glass and he and Barakat stepped inside.
Noon crept up. Sorge sat in his office on the Fourth clacking away at his keyboard. The framed picture of his wife lay face down on the desk. Ash filled a circular tray and Sacra the bottom of a crystal glass. Multicoloured pins, stabbed through torn-off notepaper, dotted a cork board behind Sorge. His door buzzed.
"Come."
"Sir?" Sorge's secretary, Lidia Enault, stuck her head in.
"My recaf arrived, Lidia?"
"Sir, men from OSEC outside for you, sir."
"Ah." Sorge saved his report of the morning's incident and pushed his chair back. "Very good."
"Sir? The Admiral will see you for lunch at his club once you are done. He asked me to pass it on, sir."
"Very good."
Two plainclothes OSEC men sat on a row of black leather seats, back-to-back. Both men, grey-suited, wore implants that replaced their right eyes. The younger of the two balanced a small shoulder-bag in his lap.
"Gentlemen, welcome to the new office." Sorge offered the older OSEC his hand and shook. "We're not normally this seedy. We've only just got the paint on."
"Commander. Commander, is it?" The older OSEC stood up and shook Sorge's hand.
"Richard Sorge."
"Lidston. My younger colleague is Ortensio."
"Hullo." Sorge shook Ortensio's hand. "Any drinks I can offer you gentlemen?"
"Thank you, Commander, but I'm not sure an out of order machine will be of much use to anyone. Is there somewhere we can talk?"
"Of course. Right this way, gentlemen." Sorge led the OSEC men up to Fifth and inside one of the soundproofed offices. "These walls—"
"Err, could use some of this at the precinct." Lidston peered around at the bright orange proofing.
"If you just…"
"Ah, shut the door would you, Orten?"
"Have a seat, gentlemen." Sorge took the head of the table and pushed a projector aside.
"No…"
"No surveillance, no audio. Another world."
"Perfect. Let's see it then, Orten."
Ortensio laid a dataslate on the table and unlocked it. "Images taken of the deceased, sir."
"No murder weapon." Lidston tapped fingertips on his knee. "Not many men can physically part a jaw from a skull—not without a cutting instrument at least. Even then…"
"Commander?" Ortensio passed the dataslate to Sorge.
"And what tells you the killer was male?" Sorge frowned at a picture of Cardosa lying underneath a spotlight. Separate images showed the jaw, and the place of death. "I've known women to pursue vengeance quite passionately in some cases. Spite over false love."
"Puncture marks where the skin was broken. Something sharp pierced the victim's cheeks."
"Many pierce marks, sir," said Ortensio. "Too irregular for a serrated blade. Claws. Maybe a cobbled-together gauntlet."
Sorge enlarged his view of Cardosa's face. "I can't see on this screen. I'd need to be there. Er, what did your forensics people dig up?"
"The last two images."
"What about them?"
"Well, as you can imagine, most of the blood belonged to your man. We did find traces of… something on the deceased's sleeve."
"Now, that is peculiar." Sorge widened a blown-up image of a pinkish, crystalline substance. "Human?"
"We found hairs at the scene too, sir. They don't match with Cardosa's," Ortensio said. "The only prints our machine recognised though were that of the deceased."
"The killer's prints? Contract killers and others in their line of work would not be registered, or they may have forcibly removed their own prints. Perhaps the killer even wore gloves."
"Maybe they were a professional—"
"Too messy. Professionals are artists." Lidston glared at Ortensio. "Professionals make statements, they don't butcher indiscriminately. These are straws, man!"
A fist banged on the door. "Beg pardon, gentlemen." Sorge unlocked the door. Lidia Enault held out Sorge's cap and greatcoat. "No getting out of this one is there, Petty Officer."
"Admiral's orders, sir." Lidia smiled. "His car awaits you downstairs."
"Well, gentlemen, I am sorry to have to cut and run." Sorge folded his greatcoat over his arm and sat his cap on it. "I do have reliable sources working in Lutu as we speak, and I have no doubt answers will reach me in very short order. I'll pass on anything I hear to you."
"Ah, one more moment, Commander." Lidston twisted in his seat. "Do you drink in work hours?"
Sorge moved his cuff back from his chrono. "Fourteen minutes past twelve places me fourteen minutes inside my lunch hour. My petty officer will show you off the premises. Good afternoon to you both." Sorge moved past Lidia, nodded, and hurried down to the lifts on Fourth.