Dawnwind 1: Last Man Standing (38 page)

“That doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

He scowled.
 
“You have to admit that he’s risen awfully fast through the Guard.
 
Don’t you want to know how he’s done it?
 
Why they’ve promoted him?
 
Aren’t you curious about that, at all?”

“Did you know I served in the Guard, Fi?”

“No.”

“I was a Colony girl.
 
The best way to get off a Colony is by joining the Guard.”

“I had no idea.”

“That’s why most of the Guard is made up of colonials, not homeworlders.
 
I served for six years,
 
joined as an unranked floater and left as a Fifth Technician.”

“So this sort of promotion is normal?”

“I’m saying that there’s a huge turnover in the Guard.
 
People join, serve a year or three, then get out because they get homesick or realize the Guard isn’t for them.
 
If you have the inclination, it’s entirely possible for someone to do what Epcott’s done.
 
Especially if they’re willing to get their hands dirty.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Guard rewards service.
 
You’ve started your research on Epcott?”

Fi looked uneasy.
 
“Well, I thought you’d give the go ahead so....”

Elo rolled her eyes.
 
“Show me what you’ve got.”

“It’s not much,” said Fi.
 
He pulled out his PIN, called up the relevant file.
 
“Just Epcott’s service record since he joined the Guard.”

She held out her hand, and Fi passed her his PIN.
 
Elo skimmed the file, nodded once or twice, and frowned a couple of times.
 

“Epcott’s a fixer.”

“What’s a fixer?”

“A problem-solver,” said Elo.
 
“An officer recruited by Guard Command and sent into trouble spots to deal with situations where conventional methods don’t work.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“There’s no reason you would.”
 

Elo stood, crossed the office to her workstation.
 
She slotted Fi’s PIN into the station and accessed Epcott’s service record.
 
Her fingers slid over her infoscreen, accessing the network’s info archives.
 
The wallscreens of Elo’s office, which had offered a panoramic view of Ted Dov, turned opaque, plunging the room into darkness.
 
A moment later, information began to scroll across the wallscreen, coalescing into multicolored circles.

At the center of each circle, illuminated in blue, was the info Fi had already gathered regarding Epcott’s service with the Guard.
 
Other information was built around it, forming
concentric rings.
 
Some of the rings were red, some were yellow.
 
Here and there, some rings were pale gray.

“The blue text is your baseline information,” said Elo.
 
“Epcott’s service record.
 
The red text is information gathered from public sources and verified.
 
The yellow text is information from public sources that can be tentatively verified with a little effort.”

“And the gray?” asked Fi.

“Unverified information from private sources.”

“Rumors from the whispernet?’

“Unverified information from private sources,” corrected Elo, sternly.
 
“And entirely unusable unless it is verified.”
 

She tapped the nodes on her infoscreen.
 
Fi watched as the walls of Elo’s office were filled with lines of colored info.

“I ran a preliminary comparison search,” said Fi, shaking his head, “and I didn’t get half of this information.”

“Did you search the offworld info archives or just the local?”

Fi felt his fingers flush.
 
“Just the local.”

“Next time, you’ll know better.”

They skimmed the information, glowing against the black walls.

“I’ve never heard of half these places,” said Fi.
 
“Anopu Ne?
 
Tavvigay? Station 24?”

“Well, then, you’d better start doing your research, Fi, if you expect me to broadcast your story.”

Fi blinked.
 
“You said you weren’t interested in the story.”

“I wasn’t interested in the story you pitched,” corrected Elo.
 

She touched her workstation, clearing the infoscreen.
 
Her wallscreens reverted to their panoramic view of the city.
 

“No one’s going to be interested in a smear story about the Guard, and, to be honest, we don’t need the trouble a story like that would cause the network.
 
But a story about an alien fixer, working for the Guard?
 
That, my dear Fi, will be ratings gold.”

“You think?” asked Fi.

“I know,” said Elo.
 
“We’ll get the xenos as well as the average person on the street.
 
Offworld matters are trending high, thanks to the Pijuni Question and Ambassador Hezza’s latest gaffe.
 
If we time your story right, we can score major ratings.”

“This story isn’t going to happen overnight,” protested Fi.
 
“I’m going to have to find witnesses and arrange interviews.
 
And I don’t have to tell you what it’s like trying to pry information out of the Defense Authority.
 
It took me weeks just to get Epcott’s service record!
 
And you saw the info.
 
I bet half the people I’ll need to talk to are either offworld or on a Guard ship in the back of beyond.
 
This is going to take time.”

“You’ll have time,” said Elo.
 
“And the network’s backing.
 
You won’t be working this story alone, Fi.”

He blinked, surprised at her support.
 
“Thanks, Elo, but. . . .”

“No buts.
 
You won’t be working this story alone.
 
I’m giving you access to the stringers and I’m assigning you a partner.”

“A partner? I don’t need a partner.”

She snorted.
 
“When it comes to the Guard, you do.
 
That’s why I’m pairing you with somebody who knows them and the Defense Authority.”

“But. . . .”

“No buts,” snapped Elo.
 
“You work this story my way or you don’t work it at all.”

Fi knew when he was beaten and shrugged.
 
“Fine.
 
Who am I going to be working with?”

“Don’t worry, Fi.
 
You’ll like him.
 
He’ll be able to open a lot of doors for you.”

“Who?”

“His name is Polum Jobela.”

* * * * *

 
The bar was called The Merry Rhymer, but if there was anything merry about it, Fi couldn’t see it.
 
It squatted between a commercial transport field and one of Ted Dov’s baseline districts.
 
An elongated dome, the exterior of the bar was a riot of purples, yellows and blues.
 
The interior, however, was drab and colorless.
 
 
Illuminators were set on low, creating pools of wan light, surrounded by darkness.
 
In another setting, that might have been intimate.
 
Here, though, it just felt furtive.
 
The walls resembled gray steel and Fi couldn’t decide if they were set to that particular appearance, or if the owners just hadn’t bothered to switch on the nanotech.

When Fi stepped into the place, there were several patrons seated around the small tables and lining the bar.
 
Most glanced his way, studied him for a moment, and then turned back to their drinks.
 
The bartender, a fat man with dark red hair, sporting blue and orange eyepaint, watched Fi approach with a blank expression.

“Help you?” he said, when Fi reached the bar.

“I’m supposed to meet someone here.
 
A man named Polum Jobela.”

The bartender’s needle thin eyebrows shot up in surprise.
 
“What’s your name?”

“Fi Mosu.”

“Wait here,” said the barman.
 
He turned and vanished through a doorway behind the bar.
 
After a few moments, he returned and waved Fi behind the bar.
 
“Come with me.”

On the other side of the door was a storage area crammed with boxes. Fi noticed that several of them had flashing security tags.
 
He glanced at the bartender, wondering just what sort of person Polum Jobela was, and how did he know Elo Lis?

The fat bartender had reached a door.
 
He laid his hand against an identity plate and the door slid open.
 
“Go in.”

Cautiously, Fi stepped through the door.
 
He found himself in a richly appointed private office.
 
The walls here were covered with shaped redwood panels that gleamed in the light from discreetly placed illuminators.
 
Thick, hand-woven rugs covered the floor.
 
A fine tapestry from the Lebajo Highlands hung on one wall, depicting lovely sea-spirits overwhelming a handsome young fisherman.
 
There were two curved couches, dark yellow, facing each other across a small redwood drinks table.
 
On one of the couches, sat a man.

“Come in, Mr. Mosu.
 
Have a seat.”

As Fi approached, he studied Polum Jobela with interest.
 
The man was tall and solidly built.
 
He was handsome, with fine dark skin and short red hair starting to turn gray at the scalp. Curiously, he was barefaced.
 
Beneath a dark green robe, he wore orange tights and golden sandals.
 
As Fi sat on the couch opposite Jobela, he saw, with some shock, that the man’s entire chest was covered with tattoos.

Seeing Fi’s reaction to the tattoos, Polum laughed.
 
“Elo didn’t warn you?”
 

He touched his chest, the motion causing the wide sleeve of his robe to fall back, exposing more tattoos.
 
They ended at the wrist, but covered his forearm so completely, it looked like Polum was wearing a fitted shirt.

“She didn’t,” said Fi. He shifted on the couch.
 
“You’re
Utofi
?”

Polum shrugged.
 
“I’ve been a lot of things, Mr. Mosu.
 
Does that bother you?”

“Elo said you could open doors with the Defense Authority.
 
Forgive me, but I have to wonder how you could do that?”

“That depends entirely on the door.”

Fi frowned.
 
“Do I have to tell you how sinister that sounds?”

Polum laughed again. “Let me guess.
 
You imagine that I’ll use blackmail or intimidation tactics to get what I want.
 
Right?”

“Is there a way I can answer that question that won’t get me fed into an industrial recycler?”

Polum chuckled.
 
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, young man.”

“Are you saying the
Utofi
don’t kill people?”

“Only when absolutely necessary,” said Polum, mildly.
 
“And I can assure you, that won’t be necessary in this matter.”

“Have you killed people, Mr. Jobela?”

“Oh, yes.”

Fi stared.
 
He hadn’t expected the man to answer the question, and certainly not in the positive.