Anniversary Day (22 page)

She walked up to the door of the coffee shop and peered inside. The suspect’s face was blood-spattered but intact. A servo-tray hovered, as if it wondered why no one was putting the empty plate on it so that it could clean up.

She put on a protective suit and went inside. She didn’t peer over the counter—she didn’t need to see innocents, horribly dead—but she did look at her dead suspect.

Then she double-checked her gloves, put on another pair, and another. Still her hands trembled as she reached for his neck, hoping that nothing on his skin would puncture through all the layers she wore.

Nothing did. Or at least, she didn’t feel anything. She wondered if Soseki had felt something.

There was, of course, no way to know.

She bent the suspect’s head forward, prepared to move the hair away from the back of his skull to look for his clone mark.

But she didn’t have to move the hair. The hair near the mark—a mark most clones struggled to keep hidden—had been shaved off.

She stared at the number for the longest moment, feeling numb.

Fifteen.

He was the fifteenth clone off the same embryo.

She knew about three.

There were twelve more.

Thirty-seven

The more information DeRicci got, the more it upset her. She watched the security vid from the coffee shop, listened to the “suspect,” as the police were calling him, confess to the crime, taunt the officer, and then die.

The “suspect” was smart and articulate, clearly not someone programmed to kill.

And DeRicci wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or not.

She felt alone in her office, as if she was operating a command center all by herself. Essentially she was. After a lot of nagging, she had gotten Popova to bring in food, food that had been tested first, because everyone was feeling paranoid.

In fact, outside the building, an entire group of security guards looked for the clone that was after DeRicci. There was no proof, of course, that any clone was after her or that she was considered a large enough target to warrant an attack. But she had to operate on the assumption that she was.

Popova had brought four different kinds of coffee, and two dozen sweets on top of an entire meal, which DeRicci polished off in spite of her private vow not to. Popova hadn’t joined her at all, like she often did when DeRicci had food brought in.

Popova hadn’t done much at all.

DeRicci paced the inside of her office, which she’d been doing since this disaster started. She was amazed that there wasn’t a gigantic track worn into her rug by now.

Outside her windows, the city had emptied out. Word of Soseki’s death made some places close early. Others hadn’t been open at all because of Anniversary Day. In deference to the mayor, all public events were canceled.

The press had finally figured out that something was up, but DeRicci’s press liaison was actually making headway, warning of a catastrophic result if people knew their leaders were being targeted.

More than once, DeRicci had spoken to the head of a media conglomerate, asking that person to wait to report on the attacks on the governor-general and the other mayors. Everyone agreed to wait to use the word “attack,” but a number of outlets were reporting “stepped-up security” on the leaders of the Moon, along with canceled events and “scares” that were leading to “rumors” of injury.

That was the best DeRicci could do.

She privately thanked the Earth Alliance's rather draconian secrets law—which she had opposed as a young detective. The secrets law made it illegal for any media outlet to report state secrets should that news result in a large “adverse” reaction as a direct response to the news.

Riots caused by the murder and attempted murders of mayors on the Moon counted.

And she had threatened to invoke the secrets law twice this afternoon alone.

But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could do that, particularly after Romey’s news about the bastard who had killed Soseki. A clone mark of fifteen meant that there were at least fourteen others just like him, and at least five of them had already been active in murders or attempted murders on this day.

They weren’t fast-grow clones, which she had suspected at first. Fast-grow clones didn’t grow in a day or two. It took a few years for them to reach their adult height and weight, but emotionally, they were little more than children.

If these were fast-grow, they wouldn’t have been able to carry out such a complex maneuver. The attacks would have had to have been simpler, something straightforward, like the firing of a laser pistol or the hurling of a bomb.

But these were complicated attacks, attacks that took timing, thought, and a bit of guile. No one with a child’s intellectual and emotional development could pull such a thing off.

Nor would a fast-grow clone have been able to converse the way that the “suspect” had. The fast-grow clone would have known a few choice phrases and little more.

Which led to an even creepier thought. These men, these clones, were either recruited for this task (which DeRicci hoped was the case) or they were grown specifically for this, and the attack had been in the planning for decades.

The whole clone angle bothered DeRicci. While Romey and the other detectives were working to catch the perpetrators of today’s crimes, DeRicci wanted to know who was behind it all. And the only way to find that person was to find out where these clones had come from or if they had been recruited.

She wanted Popova to start that research, but once again, Popova wasn’t responding to anything on her links.

DeRicci finally sighed and decided to do things the hard way. She went through the door into Popova’s office.

Popova was sitting at her desk, head bent, long black hair masking her face. Her shoulders were shaking.

It took DeRicci a moment to realize that Popova was sobbing. DeRicci’s strong, unflappable assistant, who had helped her through emergencies even more dire than this, had dissolved into tears.

“Rudra,” DeRicci said.

Popova took a deep breath, raised her head, but didn’t move her hair.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” DeRicci asked.

“I’m all right,” Popova said, her voice thick with tears.

“You’re not, and I need to know why. What is it about Arek?” DeRicci deliberately used Soseki’s first name, because she had a hunch.

“I didn’t mean to,” Popova said, her voice rising. “It’s just he was so wonderful and we liked each other so much and it wasn’t like he was married or I was but we had our jobs, and we weren’t sure if there was a conflict of interest and….”

She strangled on another sob. DeRicci, who prided herself on her own detecting abilities, felt stupid for not noticing this one. Popova’s willingness to be the liaison with the City of Armstrong. Popova’s ability to find a way to have business take her near the city offices around eight p.m. Popova’s mood. It had been lighter of late.

“I’m sorry,” DeRicci said. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll be all right,” Popova said, face still covered by her long hair.

“No, you won’t,” DeRicci said. “I’m going to have to send you home.”

“
No
, please,” Popova said, and this time, she turned toward DeRicci. Popova’s perfect skin was blotchy and her eyes were swollen. “I’ll do what I can.”

DeRicci sighed. She knew that Popova wouldn’t perform to one tenth her normal standards. But she also knew Popova was probably better off here. Like so many in DeRicci’s high-powered staff, Popova lived alone, and she didn’t need to be on her own right now.

Besides, Popova loved information, and sending her home would cut her off from information on the greatest crisis of her life.

“You stay then,” DeRicci said, “but I need someone to act as my assistant. Someone who can process a lot of information quickly and already has access to some of the higher levels.”

“Yes, sir,” Popova said. “I should have thought of that. I’m sorry.”

She should have thought of a lot of things, but she wouldn’t, not when she was in this condition. Which was why DeRicci couldn’t use her as her main assistant.

“I need this person now,” DeRicci said. Then she sighed, knowing how harsh she sounded. “I really am sorry, Rudra.”

“I know,” Popova said, then put a hand to her ear, shades of the old Popova, and set about getting DeRicci a new assistant.

As DeRicci went back into her own office, an urgent message came across her links. Two more failed attacks—one in Gagarin Dome, one in Tycho Crater. The failure was due to the warnings she had sent. Images came with the message, and DeRicci accessed those on the large screen.

Two more clones. Exactly the same, from looks to clothing. Authorities in Tycho Crater were zeroing in on theirs now. They’d have more information in a few minutes.

Maybe by then, they’d have actual answers.

Thirty-eight

Nyquist found it surprisingly easy to get to the Port of Armstrong, considering the police presence around the city. Security at the Port was high, but people and aliens and goods still flowed in and out. He wondered if he should say something to DeRicci, then decided against it, at least for the moment. He needed to focus on Ursula Palmette.

The Port was a windy twisty building that had several wings. Really it was several buildings all attached to one hub, but the city preferred to consider the Port as one unit. Rather odd, considering that it might be easier to shut down a section of the Port if it were considered a different building than it would be to shut down the entire Port.

Still, he wasn’t in charge, and he was glad of it. He would have hated to run the Port, much more than he would have hated to have DeRicci’s job. DeRicci took care of the entire Moon, but she thought of it the way he thought of his city, as a unit. And she was working security, not running the Moon itself.

No one was running the Moon itself. Not yet anyway. Although he was seeing the government centralize more and more. He wouldn’t doubt if the office of governor-general and the United Domes council became more important during his lifetime, rather than less.

Particularly after a crisis like this. Leaders down, and only DeRicci’s office with the authority to handle the Moon-wide emergency.

He watched security let through two slender blond men without giving them any greater check than anyone else. Nyquist hurried toward them, and caught one of them by the arm, taking an image of the man’s face and comparing it to the suspect’s image via his inks.

“Sorry,” Nyquist said. “Thought you were someone else.”

“It’s okay,” the man said and headed into nearby restaurant. The other man had disappeared into the crowd and was long gone.

That decided Nyquist. He sent a message to DeRicci via the emergency links.
I’m at the Port following a lead. Security is lax here. You might already have lost the suspect. Better double-check your security order for here
.

He got an audio message back with an audible curse embedded in it. That curse made him smile. Apparently that curse was just for him.

Thanks, Bartholomew
, DeRicci sent.
Am having trouble with Popova. Apparently she forgot to send the revised message through. Will take care of it now, and hope for the best
.

Problems with Popova? That was really unusual. The woman was scarily efficient. Had this emergency finally taxed her to the limits? If so, even that would surprise Nyquist. He hadn’t thought Popova had limits.

He headed back the way he had come when he’d been pursuing the blond men. His stomach growled as he passed another restaurant, this one smelling of frying meat. He stopped at a nearby stand and bought an apple, one of the few things he knew would be fresh at the Port.

Then he went through the police door. Even the security for that was still on the low-end. All he had to do was open his palm so that the door could read his badge number. The system should have done a retinal scan and a living tissue scan at this point in the crisis.

But he wasn’t going to bother DeRicci again. He had done what he could. Now he had to find Palmette.

The back corridors in the Port were narrower than the main corridors. They were unadorned, and didn’t have the floating ads that the public areas had. Nor did they have pop-up directories with maps or Port behavior rules.

He had to remember the layout himself or call up a detailed map, the kind only available to authorities who worked the Port.

He let himself into Space Traffic Control. This was the heart of the Port, with more people, doorways, and corridors than any other part. There was a security section, an operations section, a decontamination section, and dozens of others. Nyquist hadn’t been inside most of them, although he had been inside the decontamination area on one memorable evening.

He never wanted to go in there again.

Now that he was inside Space Traffic, he had to find Palmette’s section, and he couldn’t do that on his own. So he called up the directory via his links and asked it to locate Palmette’s desk.

Her name didn’t even register, which bothered him. Instead, the system asked for a job title and/or a job description.

He sent back Special Administrator for Quarantined Ships, and hoped he had the title right. Otherwise, he would have to go into Space Traffic’s reception, which he hated to do.