Children of a Dead Earth Book One (17 page)

Benson snorted. He'd been chief long enough to know all the little tricks to make someone “volunteer” for just about anything.

“You know, at your prime, you were an inspiration to a lot of people. A hero, even. What do you think they would see now?”

Kimura waved off the question. “They would see a man who stopped trying to change society and instead chose to live outside it. But the same could be asked of you, Zero Champion. How many people did you inspire with your innovative formations? How many new rules were written in response? Now you dutifully enforce the rules without question. I can't speak for everyone else, but I know I was a little disappointed by your metamorphosis.”

“You follow Zero?”

“Of course. A beautiful game, all the grace of ballet mixed with the brutality of old American football. Sport has never seen a more perfect reflection of the human experience.”

“But how? You've been down here since before I was even born.”

Kimura held out his hands. “Just look around you. Information flows through fiber-optic cables just as surely as water flows through pipes. It's only a matter of knowing how to tap it.”

In the far corner, the young girl squealed with glee and ran over to where Kimura sat, chattering excitedly. She hopped up onto his waiting lap and handed him a tablet. The screen lit up at his touch, and an approving smile grew on his face. Kimura opened a small box on his table and pulled out a piece of candy. The girl opened her mouth and pointed at her tongue. Kimura popped it in her mouth obligingly. She beamed up at Benson with a grin missing a front tooth, then jumped down and ran out of the room.

“Cute kid,” Benson said.

“Yes, and quite the little tinkerer.” Kimura handed the tablet over. “Ah, you might want to change your passwords.”

“What do you mean?” Benson looked down at the screen and realized it was his tablet, the broken one he'd brought for barter. Restored screen aside, the only difference was the wallpaper image had been changed to a picture of himself taken only moments ago, with the addition of a big orange mustache and a garish pink feather boa crudely drawn in with a crayon widget.

“How?”

“How did she fix it? Well, someone traded us for a tablet with a good screen but a burned out power core. As far as how she broke your password, I honestly don't know.”

“Who is she?”

“My daughter,” Kimura said flatly, almost challenging Benson to push the line of inquiry. He wanted to, badly. He wanted to ask what gave Kimura the right to keep innocent children sequestered down here in the dark, cut off from the rest of humanity. He wanted to ask when they would get to choose if they wanted to live outside society, but decided to keep quiet. They were already drifting too far off track, and he wasn't the first idealist Benson had met recently who'd run afoul of common sense.

“She's beautiful,” he said simply. Kimura studied his face for a moment, perhaps trying to tease out Benson's thoughts. “But that's not why I came. As you've already heard, I'm investigating the suspected murder of this man…” Benson tried to bring up Laraby's profile from the ship's records, but the query was met with an error message. “Um, I'm not sure she fixed this all the way.”

“If you're trying to use wireless, it's not going to work in here.” Kimura pointed up. A thin metal screen had been tacked to the ceiling. “It continues into the walls, and under the floor. It's a Faraday cage, you see.”

“A what?”

“Forgive me. It blocks RF inside this building. No signals get in or out, signals from your tablet, or–”

“Or my plant.” Understanding dawned. “You still have your plant. This is one giant foil hat. That's how you faked your death. That's how you've stayed hidden.”

Kimura nodded. “Along with the help of a sympathetic reclamation tech who recycled my ‘body', yes.”

Benson couldn't conceal his shock. “You've been living in this hut for thirty-five years? Without leaving?”

“Not this one specifically. The camp has moved from time to time, and I have a helmet for the occasional excursion outside my home. But most of that time, yes, I've been here, or someplace very much like it. My gilded cage.”

Benson's opinion of the man changed ever so slightly. The sacrifice he'd made to live his ideals were extreme. He turned off the wireless transceiver in his tablet to get rid of the error message, then dug around in the case notes he'd kept firewalled and picked out an image of Laraby.

“Do you know this man? Has he ever come down to… visit one of your women?”

Kimura took the table and inspected Laraby's portrait carefully, swiping it left to right to rotate the three-dimensional reconstruction.

“No, I do not know this young man. Is he the victim?”

“Yes. His name was Edmond. I fished him out of the vacuum a couple days ago.” Benson switched the picture to Chao Feng. “And this man?”

Kimura again took the tablet, but he recognized the face immediately. “Ah, our illustrious first officer.”

“You know him?”

“I knew his father, and I met him as a young boy. Is he your suspect, then?”

“He is suspected of involvement, yes.”

Kimura whistled. “Playing with fire, my boy.”

“Trust me, I don't need to be reminded of that. Has he ever been down here to take advantage of your women's services?”

The older man chuckled. “No, he has no need of our women. What does this have to do with my people?”

“Feng was in his quarters when Laraby disappeared, and we can account for all his movements for the day before and after. They were never in contact. Someone else put Laraby in the airlock. Someone we couldn't track.”

“What makes you think there was anyone else involved? Why not suicide?”

Benson rolled up the sleeve on his right forearm, revealing the angry red slice held together with stiches.

“Call it a hunch.”

“I see.” Kimura leaned back in his chair. “And it must be one of my people because they don't have plants.”

“I'm just covering my bases. I'd like to interview them, starting with the men.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible. They won't talk to you.”

“Because you've instructed them not to.”

Kimura tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal gesture. “They honor my guidance, most of the time at least. Huang argued against talking to you at all. He believes your presence is a huge mistake.”

“Then why did you?”

Kimura held his hands open. “We're coming to that. I speak for the Unbound, and I can assure you that none of us were responsible for these crimes.”

“What about your people in Avalon?”

The older man sighed heavily. “We don't have any people in Avalon.”

“That's not what I've heard,” Benson said. “The same source that led me down here says there are people under Avalon just as there are here.”

“There probably are, but they're not Unbound.”

Benson rubbed his face in frustration. Another crazy cult to deal with?

“There was a schism two years ago,” Kimura continued. “Between my followers and a young man with more, we'll say
progressive
ideas. At first, the split was amicable, and he started a new colony much like our own. We traded supplies and news for quite a while. Members migrated between the two groups freely. But that ended abruptly five months ago after he expelled three people for ‘spying.' We haven't heard anything from them since. The people who returned said he'd taken to calling himself Mao and had grown paranoid and aggressive.”

“Hold on. You mean to tell me that a revolutionary terrorist cell's been growing under my feet for the last five months?”

“That's a bit of an overstatement, I think. I don't know Mao's intentions, you would have to ask him. Although I wouldn't expect the same warm welcome you received here.”

Benson felt a migraine coming on. This just kept getting better by the minute, although it fit the facts of the case better. They still didn't know which lock Laraby had been thrown out of, but his own attack had been in Avalon, and someone with intimate familiarity of the habitat's bowels would be perfectly positioned to disappear after the murder attempt failed.

Still, Benson had trouble seeing why a revolution minded malcontent would be willing to work for Feng, even if it was to knock off a crewmember and a cop.

“Can you give me an idea where their camp is?”

Kimura shook his head. “No. Mao's group is smaller and more mobile. They haven't set up a permanent camp as far as I know.”

“How many?”

“Six, eight at the most.”

Benson chewed on the number. Few enough to hide easily, but enough to be in many places at once and cause all sorts of mayhem.

“All right. I can work with that. So, now's the part where we haggle over how much that information just cost me.”

Kimura put up his hands. “No need to haggle. I have only one request.”

Benson waved in a “go on” gesture.

“I promise that the Unbound will provide you with any intelligence and support we can in finding your killer, in exchange for clemency for any code violations and sanctuary leading up to the Flip.”

Benson stared at him slack-jawed for a moment. But then, what else would he ask for? He'd been hiding here in the shadows for decades, but chose this moment to expose himself, his people. They were running out of time, and Kimura knew it. There was no way his little tribe would survive the month of hard deceleration coming in less than two weeks down in these quarters. He was desperate, but too proud to say it out loud. So, he'd found an opportunity to bargain.

“That's… a tall order,” Benson said finally.

“Still, it is my price. Not for myself, you understand. I will take my chances down here. But the rest of my people are innocent and must be protected.”

“How many?”

Kimura hesitated, but gave in to the inevitable. “We are forty-seven. Forty-eight, if you include Mei's baby.”

“She's pregnant? How far along?”

“Two months, give or take.”

“You know how irresponsible that was.”

Kimura hung his head. “It was not foreseen.”

“I should hope not! She's a child, for God's sake!” Benson shook his head in consternation. There had been a moratorium on child licenses for the last five years, and for good reason. The day fast approached when the ship would Flip and everyone would be locked into deceleration webs for twenty hours a day for weeks. Dealing with pregnant women or toddlers wouldn't make enduring the experience any easier.

“That's a lot of people to make space for, Kimura. I don't have the authority to make the call on my own.”

“I'm sure you'll do your best.” Kimura stood uneasily. Benson held out a hand to help steady him, but Kimura waved him off. He had to be in his early seventies. Benson knew what a month spent decelerating alone down here would mean for the man. He was choosing death.

“But now, you'll have to excuse me. It's just about time to hand out the day's rations. Mei will escort you back to the lift. We'll be in touch soon, detective.”

Kimura put a hand on his shoulder and walked him back to the door. Mei waited just outside.

“Good luck catching your man.”

“Mr Kimura, wait, I have to ask.”

“Yes?”

“The skulls. Who do they belong to?”

The smile faded from Kimura's face. “The Clock still ticks in the museum, yes?” Benson nodded. “So our shrine maintains the count down here. Good day, detective.”

R
iding
the lift on the way back down to Avalon, Benson's thoughts raced to try to catch up with everything he'd learned. Prostitution, underground cults, crew conspiracies; it had been a rough few days for his preconceptions. He'd spent his entire life onboard the Ark, but it was becoming apparent that he knew virtually nothing about it, as though he'd been living on the surface of a soap bubble someone had just pricked with a needle.

As his weight grew against the soles of his feet, Theresa's name popped up to the side of his vision along with her customized ring. He answered.

Benson tensed up involuntarily. Only a limited number of conversations existed that the two of them could have that wouldn't land him in trouble.

<–and dropped off a tablet. You need to see this straightaway.>

The test results.

Benson asked.

<…maybe.>

Even over the com, he could hear the apprehension in her voice. Whatever she'd seen had Theresa spooked.

Benson cut the link, wishing he could make the lift go faster. Still only halfway down to the surface, Benson flipped around in his foot-straps and peered out at Avalon. It was nighttime, yet even now he could make out the dots of tiny people strolling along under the network of streetlights. They branched off into smaller and smaller streams, like a circulatory system. Funny how he'd never made the comparison before. The Ark was one big organism, each individual acting as a single cell. And if that was true, he was the ship's immune system. But was he investigating a disease, or learning how the beast actually functioned?

Benson banished the thought. The darkened pillar above reminded him of the time, at least so far as his body was concerned. He'd been awake for thirty hours already. Jumping from the daytime in Avalon to the daytime in Shangri-La, it was easy to lose track of his circadian rhythm, but eventually sleep would come calling.

He slapped himself in the face a couple of times, hoping the shock would wake him up until he could find a strong pot of tea.

The lightness in his arms disappeared as penthouses flew by in his peripheral vision. Soon, Benson's full weight was felt as the lift braked on approach to the deck. The sutures in his right shin protested under the strain, but he ignored the discomfort.

The doors slid open as Benson stepped out into the warm air and familiar smells of home. Yet even here, he was keenly aware of the dangers just a few meters under his feet. Mao's splinter cell would have to be dealt with sooner rather than later, in case his plans included disrupting the Flip or something equally grandiose.. He didn't have the manpower or time to search dozens of square kilometers of basement. And with what weapons? An image of his officers raiding the baseball field equipment locker for bats was less than appealing.

It would have to wait for the moment. He marched down the short pathway to the stationhouse, eyes scanning the bushes and corners for threats. If anyone was going to try to take another shot at him, now would be the time.

The walk passed without incident, however. Either his precautions really had kept news of the test results off the net, or whoever had ordered the first attack had lost some of their nerve.

Theresa was waiting in his office, the tablet sitting on his desk in front of her.

“Where were you?” she demanded.

Benson walked past her and poured himself a generous cup of tea. A little spilled over the side in his jittery grip.

“Visiting a new friend in Shangri-La.”

“Does this friend have a name?”

Benson swallowed the tea in three big gulps, fully aware of how crazy his next sentence was going to sound.

“David Kimura.”

The name didn't hit home for her right away. Theresa's eyes went a little unfocused as she consulted her plant for a match.

“
That
David Kimura?” she asked. “But he's dead.”

“I know. I told him the same thing, but he wasn't convinced.”

Theresa gave him a sideways glance. “You know how crazy that sounds, yeah?”

Benson gulped down the rest of his tea and poured another cup without answering.

“When was the last time you slept?” she asked.

“I'm fine.”

“You're shaking.”

“With excitement,” he snapped. “What's on the tablet?”

Theresa's patience wore thin. “Fine, read it your damned self. I'm going home to get some sleep so one of us isn't a zombie in the morning!”

Benson grabbed her wrist as she passed, but she twisted out of his grip. “No, Bryan, you want to do this all on your own, and I'm going to let you.”

“Esa, wait. I'm sorry. You're right, I'm tired and punchy.”

“You're running yourself into the ground. I've never seen you like this before.”

“I know, but I have to see it through.”

“Why?” Theresa pleaded. “Why is Laraby so important to you?”

“Because…” The words didn't come right away. Benson's muddled mind tried to find a way to articulate what he'd been feeling for days. “Because I see myself in Edmond. He was an only kid with old parents and he had to work really hard to get where he was. Because the crew is supposed to be the best of us. They are the de facto government, and we're expected to follow their leadership, almost blindly. But I've gotta tell you, the shit I've seen the last few days, I'm starting to think that trust has been misplaced. Someone is literally trying to get away with murdering a good kid who never hurt anybody, and they expect us to just go along with it. I'm not the historian Devorah is, but it can't be too hard to find examples where that doesn't turn out well for the people being governed.”

“We're about to Flip, is this really the right time to rock the boat?”

“I think it's our last chance to right its course.”

Theresa crossed her arms. “Did you practice that line, Zero Hero?”

Benson shook his head. “No, totally spontaneous. Did you like it?”

“Yes, I did.” She grabbed the tablet and turned it on. “You were right. About everything. The skin and blood cells under Laraby's fingernails belong to Chao Feng.”

Benson grabbed the tablet and scrolled through the results for himself. It was strange; the results didn't surprise him at all, but he felt a surge of adrenaline all the same. This sealed it: the paintings established the link between the two men, Feng's skin cells established they'd fought, and his actions since amounted to attempts to cover up the crime and intimidate a constable. He was at the scene, had the opportunity, Benson could prove everything but the motive, and that would almost surely come out now that he'd have Feng in custody and could interrogate him, not to mention do a proper search of his files. And once reality set in, Feng was almost certain to roll over on his accomplice, whether it was Mao or another member of his cell.

Today was a good day.

Benson linked the tablet with his own and copied the results, then he tossed it back at Theresa. “Make a copy. Make a dozen copies.”

“Where are you going?”

He slid his own tablet in a desk drawer and locked it with a thumb print. “To finish this.”

B
enson grabbed
Constable Korolev out of bed on his way back to the lift. He stepped back out not five minutes later in a clean, pressed uniform and perfectly groomed hair, without a trace of the sleep he'd just shaken off.

Benson reached up and mussed Korolev's hair.

“Never look better than the boss, son.”

“But you look like shit, sir.”

Benson could only laugh. He was about to put the young man directly into the line of fire of the most powerful people alive, whether Korolev knew it or not. He could forgive a breach of decorum.

“Do you know why I've pulled you out of bed, constable?”

“I've heard the rumors, sir.”

“And you're not afraid of them?”

Korolev set his jaw. “Not enough to refuse to do my job.”

Benson put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at the younger man. “Good answer. Do you have your stun-stick and some cuffs?”

“Always.”

“Good, let's roll.”

Benson phoned Magistrate Boswell and had a warrant in his inbox before they'd reached the top of the lifts. Getting it was one thing, executing it would be another. Commander Feng was on the bridge, not in his quarters, so they were headed for the command module. In theory, the warrant gave Benson authority to run down a suspect anywhere onboard, but in practice he didn't have control of the lock into Command. If someone on the other side decided to play hardball, Benson and Korolev couldn't do much about it short of pinching a couple of cutting torches from engineering. They'd just have to see who was willing to make a bigger scene.

Benson was pretty sure it was him, but just in case, he set up an encrypted video link through his plant back to the stationhouse. If the crew tried to pull anything funny, Theresa would stream it straight to the social net. It wouldn't take them long to shut it down, but by then killing the stream would be the most damning thing they could do.

Ten seasons playing Zero had taught Benson a thing or two about playing dirty.

They drifted in silence through Shangri-La's axis corridor. They weren't challenged at the entry to the bio-lab module, or at the lock to the command module itself. Just as Benson felt sure news of the warrant had somehow fallen behind their progress, they hit a wall.

“What is the nature of your visit to the bridge, detective?” asked a holo image of a squeaky clean bridge officer who scarcely looked older than the uniform hanging on his narrow shoulders.

“We're here to execute an arrest warrant. Please open the lock.”

“May I see your warrant?”

Benson grunted with irritation, but uploaded the warrant file from his plant. The young man pulled it up on his console and audibly gasped as he read the name. The cat was definitely out of the bag now.

“I, um, I'm afraid I can't let you in just now, detective. We're running a very sensitive simulation related to the Flip, and the captain has ordered–”

Benson held up his hand to cut the young officer off mid-sentence. “I'm going to stop you right there. What's your name, son?”

“Ensign Barta, detective.”

“Well, Barta, you drew the short straw when they saw me coming and told you to stall me, I understand that. You probably didn't even know what this was about until just this moment. I sympathize, really I do, but I'm in the middle of pursuing a suspect. I have a warrant signed by the civilian authority to collect that suspect, and right now the only thing between me and him is this door. So either you open it, right now, or in ten minutes I'll be issued another warrant. Except this one will have
your
name across the top of it, followed by ‘Wanted for Obstruction of Justice.' Are we clear?”

Benson swore he could watch the young officer's brain working its way through the flowchart, but the outcome was never really in doubt. Barta decided to just get out of the way and let the big boys fight it out for themselves. The light above the lock turned green and the door hissed open.

“Thank you,” Benson said, as Barta's image faded into thin air.

Benson floated into the short antechamber and waited for the doors to cycle. Korolev bumped into him. The inner door scrolled open to reveal their welcoming committee. Three crew members floated in the opening, surrounding Captain Mahama like a flock of hawks.

“Detective Benson,” Mahama said. “Forgive me, but I seem to be experiencing déjà vu. I could have sworn we'd already had this conversation.”

“These are new charges, captain. You asked me to continue my investigation, and I have. New evidence has come to light and I cannot ignore it in good conscience. I should warn you that I have a secured video link streaming this conversation. Is it your intention to continue to interfere with my murder investigation?”

Mahama was taken aback by the implied threat, while the trio around her exchanged confused looks. Did they not know about the murder? If the official line was still that Laraby had offed himself, it was possible this was the first they'd heard of it.

“Are you trying to blackmail me, detective?”

Benson feigned surprise. “That's an awfully cynical way to look at it, ma'am.”

“You know I can have any transmission shut down and wiped from the net in minutes.”

“Of course you could, but people will be talking about it in
seconds
. Cutting it off after that, well, that wouldn't make anyone look good, would it?”

Mahama glared at him hard enough that Korolev actually tensed up, anticipating action. Benson put a calming hand on his shoulder to try to settle the young constable.

“Bending the rules of a new game, hey, Zero champ?”

Benson's face remained implacable.

“OK,” Mahama said at last. “There's obviously more than a little testosterone in the air here. Let's take a step back and work through this like the professionals we all are.”

“Fine by me. I have new evidence that puts Commander Feng in a physical struggle with crewman Laraby in the hours before his death.”

“May I see this evidence?”