Great North Road (86 page)

“Doesn’t matter what composition pack you mix it with, it still tastes like semolina that someone’s pissed in.”

“Thanks for the image,” Angela told him. “So, have you seen anything out there?”

“Nothing,” Paresh said. “It’s not showing itself. But we’ll find the bastard eventually.” He patted the carbine. “And when we do, it’ll be sorry.”

What Angela wanted to tell him was how childish he was being, how stupid his reliance on having the biggest gun, but she held back. Wasn’t going to play the bitch token, there was too much resting on the Legionnaires being on her side. “You just be careful out there.”

Something made a sharp
click
sound over by the pallets.

The Legionnaires heard it, too. Paresh glanced around. All of them lifted their carbines.

Click. Click
.

“What the hell …”

Something stung Angela’s cheek. “Ow!” Her hand came up automatically, a wasp-swatting reflex. But St. Libra didn’t have insects. Then something flickered across her vision before
click
ing off her armor vest. She canceled her grid completely.

The
clicks
were merging into a continuous clatter. Angela stared in amazement as a small white pellet bounced off Paresh’s armor right in front of her. Something pinched the back of her hand. Then her head was pricked again. She knew what the pellet was, just refused to acknowledge it.
That can’t exist on St. Libra.
But there were dozens of them on the muddy ground around them, with more landing every second. As if to emphasize the portent, the wind started to gust harder.

A mesmerized Josh was bending over, picking up one of the white pellets. “Hail?” he said incredulously.

Angela glanced up. Which was really stupid. She cried out as more hailstones smacked into her unprotected face. “Son of a bitch.” The sky above was darkening further, a gray veil sliding across the borealis streamers, growing gloomier toward the horizon. Even as she hunched over for protection she could see the hailstones were getting bigger.
Everything is larger on St. Libra
. One struck her on the back of the neck, the size of a pebble. “Ouch.” Her e-i was reporting a general alert. Angela looked around frantically for cover. The tents were a couple of hundred meters away. And she was suddenly suspicious about how much protection they’d offer in this. One of the self-loading trucks was parked at the end of the pallet row.

“Come on!” she yelled, and started sprinting for the machine. The Legionnaires ran after her, their armor making them slower. The sound of the hail hitting them turned them into clattering robot-like creatures. Then she was at the truck, diving underneath, scrabbling her legs around so they weren’t left exposed. Paresh and the other two arrived and crawled in with her. The hailstones landing outside were as big as golf balls now, hitting hard, bouncing, shattering the ones already lying in the mud. They covered the ground as far as she could see, steaming lightly.

“How the fuck could this happen?” Josh yelled above the constant impact roar.

“Sirius has redshifted,” Angela shouted back. “That means it’s cooler. St. Libra is starting to chill down.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Does it fucking look like I’m joking?”

Pressed up next to her, his arm over her shoulders—as if that would do any good—Paresh gave her a worried glance. “What else is going to happen?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a goddamn climatologist.” Anger was good. Anger stopped her being afraid.

The deluge stopped after twenty minutes, when the clouds blew away to the south. Shifting variegated aurora light shone down once more, shimmering off the deep swath of hailstones that smothered the ground.

Angela and the Legionnaires crawled out from under the loader truck and looked around at the ruined camp. Boots crunched on the uneven layer of ice. It was already starting to melt, vapor tendrils thickening around Angela’s legs and rising. People were emerging from wherever they’d found refuge from the despoiled sky’s fearsome hostility.

“Wow, holy shit,” an aghast Paresh muttered as he took in the damage. None of the tents were standing. The few that did still have a frame intact had shreds of photovoltaic sheets hanging from them, flapping weakly in the fading wind. Hailstones had shredded the glossy black fabric as if it were tissue. Even the big central mess tent had long tears across the roof, its posts leaning precariously. “This can’t go on,” Paresh said loudly, close to panic. “We’ve got to get out of here. Fuck the lightning, they’ve got to send a Daedalus for us. They’ve got to.”

“They will,” Angela said, knowing it was all a lie. “Don’t worry, they’ll come and get us.”

M
ONDAY,
M
ARCH 25, 2143

Office3 was short on people when Sid arrived. Eva and Abner were sitting at their desks, immersed in their console zones, but they were alone. Last night had seen city police and agency constables deployed en masse to a holding yard in Last Mile. They were kept on standby through the night, ready to back up the GE Border Directorate troops.

Highcastle residents had made an attempt to break through. The riot on the St. Libra side had lasted for hours. The directorate troops wound up using water cannon, heat induction beams, and tangle bullets. Eventually the would-be returnees were repelled. But they were still there, thousands of them camped out in their vehicles along Motorway A. The morning news was full of threats about turning off the bioil supplies to Earth unless they were allowed to come back. The GE energy commissioner was flying to Newcastle for talks with Augustine North. Markets were falling. And the HDA still refused to say if the sunspots were Zanth-related.

Tilly Lewis was waiting for him when Sid came in, carrying her coat and fold-down pink umbrella, which was still dripping on the worn carpet. He grinned at the damp tassels of hair she was squeezing. “Is it raining?”

“Comedy master, huh?”

“Come on through.”

The seal on the door of his office turned blue.

“So what have you got for me?” Sid asked.

There was a slightly awkward pause as she avoided eye contact. “Well, there was definitely a murder in apartment five seventy-six B.”

“Aye, come on!”

“Full report,” she said as her e-i loaded the file into the office’s network. “I’m sorry, Sid, I know how critical this was for you. But, really, it was months ago, and that apartment has been cleaned twice a week ever since. That’s on top of the bleach job that was done on it by Reinert’s people.”

“You’ve got to give me something.”

Tilly nodded in discomfort. “It’s more or less a definite that the murder did happen there, that five seventy-six wasn’t a staging post. There was a sizable pool of 2North blood on the floor in the lounge, possibly as much as a liter. Bleach had ruined most of it, but we got a positive DNA match. Then we confirmed a small blood trail to the bathroom, where the body was put in the bath. That’s right?”

“Aye. Blazczaka and the others confirmed that’s where the body was when they arrived.”

“It was put there to bleed out. The heart was a mess, of course, there was no arterial spurt aside from the kill stab. But given the size of the wound, leakage would occur for a while afterward. So moving him was done to reduce mess in the apartment. In my opinion.”

“Whoever did it, didn’t want to hang around, and they didn’t want Tallulah to find out. Fair enough. But they were still thinking ahead, about the disposal.”

“Yeah.”

“And there’s nothing else you can tell me?”

“We eliminated every fingerprint we found, every DNA trace. They’re all accounted for, either St. James staff or Tallulah’s friends. There’s nothing there that’s going to help you. I ran every test we have, took more samples than we do normally.”

“Aye, thanks, I appreciate that.”

“Where does that leave you?”

“Putting together a status report for O’Rouke. What happens after that ain’t up to me.”

Tilly pressed her lips together. “All the things we can do these days, the avalanche of data available; I really thought every crime could be solved if you threw enough resources at it.”

“Yes, this one is different, that’s for sure.”

She stood and brushed straggly hair out of her eyes. “Sometimes you’ve just got to let go, Sid.”

“So I’m learning.”

Sid had lunch in the canteen with Ian. Every table was full; all officers were still on alert, ready to respond to the GE Border Directorate in case the gateway was breeched.

“I can’t see it happening,” Ian said as he ate his tomato salad. “Those GE troops are tough bastards, and they’ve got the full riot suppression gear.”

“This isn’t a riot,” Sid said. “Highcastle is a city of smart, educated people who are terrified. It’s only going to take ten of them to get truly pissed off with the GE, and they’ll go back to their microfacture shops and return with real weapons. It’ll be Amsterdam in 2121 all over again.”

“I heard they’ve got Legionnaire squads backing them up. Rocco over at Blakelaw station said he saw them arrive at Last Mile. Blacked-out vans, and everything.”

“There’s three million people on the other side. I don’t care what kind of Horatio shit the troops pull on the ramp up to the gateway, they’ll get through in the end.”

“So turn the gateway off.”

“And cut off the bioil? Not a chance.”

“Well, I still don’t see what they expect us to do if they do come pouring through. It’ll be the HDA that’ll have to deal with it.”

Ralph Stevens was suddenly standing by their table. “Did someone call for the cavalry?

“Hey.” Sid grinned up. “Join us? We can find you a chair somewhere.”

“No, that’s okay.” Ralph handed over a Mikalljan store bag. “Here’s that shirt from Kolhapur you asked for. Try it out. If you like it my contact can get you some more. The fabric is syeel, it doesn’t grow anywhere else, something to do with soil enzymes.”

Sid took the bag and placed it beside his feet. “Thanks.”

Ralph gave a one-finger salute and walked off.

“A shirt?” Ian asked.

“Aye, this syeel stuff is supposed to be the best cotton in the galaxy. Did you hear Aldred was here this morning?”

“What did he want?”

“They’ve lost track of Zebediah. He hasn’t been seen in the Independencies since the expedition began. None of his followers know where he is.”

“Well that’s no surprise, not really.”

“No.” Sid stabbed a meatball from the center of his spaghetti. “I suppose not.”

T
UESDAY,
M
ARCH 26, 2143

The sun was bright enough that it actually made the security film on O’Rouke’s office windows glow a subdued saffron. The haze permeating the office somehow managed to emphasize the pocks on the chief constable’s face, darkening his skin tone. It didn’t help that he sat behind his desk in silence as Sid briefed him. His conclusion: The North was murdered as a result of some intercompany fight.

“We can hold Ernie and his crew for another forty-eight hours without charge, but after that we’ll have to reapply. I have to show the judge that our files have been forwarded to the Prosecution Bureau for assessment. Once that happens and charges are brought, it’ll be public record there was no carjacking. A North was murdered.”

O’Rouke remained silent, unmoving, which was unnerving. Sid was desperate for some kind of hint. Slow-burn anger, full screaming rant?

“How is this possible?” O’Rouke said quietly. “I mean, for fuck’s sake, two months and bloody millions! And we haven’t even got all the sodding agency and specialist invoices filed yet. Now you’re telling me we still don’t have anyone we can pin it on?”

“We have Ernie Reinert.”

“That shitbag? So fucking what?”

“You can use what we know to deflect. Tell the reporters it was an outside hit. That it’s all down to money and bioil. That the kill order could have come from any company or bank or billionaire across the trans-stellar worlds.”

“And what about his identity? I’m supposed to face the news filth and say we don’t even know who the dead arsehole is?”

“That’s down to the North family. Their records aren’t good enough.”

“Fucking brilliant. You want me to blame Augustine North now? Maybe I’ll just stab myself in the eye with a blunt stick, it’ll be less painful.”

Sid resisted the impulse to smirk. “I told you this bloke was good. Unless we find out what corporate war is being waged, we’re never going to move this on.”

“And you’re going to find that out, are you?”

“No, sir. Look, we’ve done everything we were asked to by the HDA, we proved it wasn’t their stupid alien. Ask them to help. If Ralph agrees, he can probably fling Reinert and the others into some polar penal colony they won’t come back from. He’s got the authority, and crap knows HDA aren’t afraid to use it. Have you seen the state they reduced Reinert to? They’re pretty ruthless, and we’ve done everything they asked.”

“The devil has personally chosen me to crap on, Hurst, I swear it. You know I’m set to retire in another eighteen months? When this hits the transnet I’ll have about two minutes to clear my desk and get escorted out.”

“Can’t imagine the force without you, sir.”

“Stop brown-nosing you stupid dick, that’s Jenson’s job. You’re real police.”

“Thank you.”

“You reckon Stevens would go for this exile thing?”

“At this point, how can it hurt to ask? Maybe Jenson San could handle the question for you?”

“Too bloody right he would. All right, leave it with me.”

“And the investigation? What do you want me to do?”

“You’re sure you can’t go any farther?”

“I don’t see how.” Which was going out on a very long and very fragile limb. But if the new surveillance didn’t produce results, O’Rouke would never know.

“Ah, bollocks to it: Close it down. Hand everyone their case-end certificate, deep-cache the network files. You and Lanagin can resume general rota duty. Send the evidence you’ve harvested on Reinert to the prosecutor, but not until tomorrow. I’ll get Jenson to talk to Stevens today.”