Anniversary Day (28 page)

If he hadn’t been here before, he would have been frightened. Most cops let the Traffic Quarantine Squad handle problems inside Terminal 81. Most cops could not bear to go in here more than once.

Nyquist had been here seven times. Seven times in which he had to don the damn suit and sneak around these ships that were carrying potentially lethal cargo, ships that could kill—like Soseki’s assassin—with a single touch.

Still, he didn’t like the visible webs around the ships, the rust and age that many of the ships displayed. That looked dangerous all by itself.

But he said nothing. He let the squad lead, following them as they hurried along the suggested path, their weapons already drawn.

If he had been completely in charge—and he wasn’t—he would have argued against the drawn weapons. But he couldn’t argue. He had the authority to deal with Palmette and nothing more. If the squad leader believed that Palmette was a threat to the squad, to the terminal or to the port itself, he would kill her.

Nyquist didn’t know what she was—threat or threatened—and he wanted to find out. This day had already seen more than enough death.

Besides, he didn’t want this woman to die. He had saved her life; he didn’t want to think he had done that for nothing.

He kept behind the team, struggling to stay on the path in the dimness. They were used to operating in full hazmat gear. He wore the equipment rarely, and almost never did he have to move as quickly as they were moving now.

Still, part of him wanted to run ahead of them, to find Palmette on his own.

She had to have known what was coming, what rules she was breaking. She was the Special Administrator for the Quarantined Ships. She had to know what happened to people who tried to break into them without authorization.

Any unauthorized person inside Terminal 81, disabling webs of protection without permission, was automatically considered a danger to the city and could be shot on sight.

Palmette had permission to come inside because of her job. But she had to follow procedure: she had to wear her own hazmat suit, and she had to have back-up ready in case something went wrong.

Maybe she thought she had the ability to come and go as she pleased. Or maybe someone else thought she had that ability, someone who was forcing her to disable the webs of protection right now.

But she did not have permission to undo webs of protection. Only the squad could do that. That order provided another layer of protection for the ships and the terminal and the city.

If Palmette—or anyone else—needed to examine the interior of a ship, she was supposed to do so remotely while one of the experts went inside and investigated.

The squad turned down a narrow path between ships so large that Nyquist couldn’t see around them. The webs of protection brushed against his suit, warning him that he was too close. The paths got narrower and narrower the older the ships were. Old ships were slated for destruction, but the Port had gotten behind. Mostly because no one knew exactly how to dispose of these ships. Launching them derelict into space was no longer an option, and destroying hazardous material—even outside the protection of the Dome—had been banned by most of the Moon’s domes, except outside of a 100-kilometer radius. The problem was that so many companies had applied for extensions of that radius, that 99% of the Moon’s surface was in a protected zone.

Finally, the squad turned a corner, into a pile of haphazardly parked old ships. The system from 100 years ago was much less organized than the system now. And the ships were bulkier, less sleek, more dangerous, their webs of protection larger.

The tiny map in the corner of Nyquist’s right eye lit up. They had arrived at the ship.

He sent a non-verbal order, reminding the squad that he got to go first. Then he pushed his way to the front of the group.

Palmette stood in front of an active web. It flashed red, sending warning notices to anyone within range. Three other webs glowed green in front of her, and one—the exterior web—actually collapsed. It didn’t light up at all and the actual physical part of the web—a microfiber that would brush against a suit warning the wearer of the danger—was black and shriveled.

She had cut the first web, and somehow not managed to sound the alarms. Probably because of her high clearance level.

She wasn’t wearing a suit. She stood, hands out, looking like a child caught breaking into a cookie jar. Still tiny, she still wore her brown hair in a cap around her face. But her face was very different.

No longer young, no longer eager. Even though she had had enhancements to smooth her skin, her eyes looked old. She had seen too much. She would never again be the woman he had met on that long ago morning.

“Ursula,” he said softly. “It’s Bartholomew Nyquist.”

She held up a small penlike device in her right hand. At first he thought it was something she used to open the webs. Then he realized it was some kind of lighter.

The head of the squad sent Nyquist a private message:
If she goes into that ship and lights the cargo, the explosion will blow open the port and send toxic gas into the city.

Nyquist knew that. He had known what was in the ship since he discovered she was trying to get inside. It wasn’t zoodeh. It was a different substance, much more volatile. When Murray told Nyquist what was in that ship, neither of them had known why she was trying to get in. Nyquist had hoped she was looking for some kind of clue.

Standing orders
, the leader sent.
We shoot to kill if she goes any farther
.

You’ll wait for my order,
Nyquist sent. And before the leader could argue, he added,
And I’ll take the heat if things go wrong
.

Not that he would live through it.

He couldn’t think about that.

He couldn’t think about anything right now—except Palmette.

Fifty

Once they reached the Security Office, Flint made Talia take the stairs. Flint always took the stairs, particularly in crisis situations. Elevators, floating stairways, moving ramps, were all too dangerous and could be diverted.

Even a building this secure, with guards on every level, might be at risk in the middle of a crisis.

Which he assumed this was, given the nature of DeRicci’s request.

The building was huge, but Flint had been here before. The main floor had no windows at all, so that no one could see in and, unfortunately, no one could see out.

DeRicci called the entry the “basement” even though it was above ground. She also called it the crypt, the cavern, and that mess.

Flint understood the design, although he would have been even more cautious. He would have scattered the security personnel for the United Domes of the Moon all over Armstrong, maybe from city to city, just so that no one could take out one building, and kill most of the United Domes’ security.

He had mentioned this to DeRicci, who had given him an exasperated look. She knew about the problem.

“The money was spent before I got hired, Miles,” she said and left it at that.

Flint had no trouble crossing the lobby and heading to the side stairway, but Talia did. Her identification, showing that she had a day of creation instead of a birthday caused consternation throughout the system. It didn’t matter that he had adopted her or that she had acquired, through him, full human status.

The fact remained that she was a clone, and clones had fewer rights on the Moon than almost anyone.

Flint had just gotten exasperated enough to contact DeRicci when the security system let Talia pass. He took her hand, led her to the back staircase, and for the first time in months, she didn’t complain about the climb.

Instead, she looked nervous and frightened. She clutched his hand tightly as they climbed. He knew if he pointed it out, she would let go and deny that she was upset. So he didn’t point anything out, just set the pace as they went to the top floors which held DeRicci’s offices.

The offices were plush, too fancy for a security chief, in his opinion. DeRicci had actually toned down the look of wealth, getting comfortable furniture and getting rid of the high-end art. She had only two indulgences—her budget for expensive (often Earth-made) food and the live plants in her personal office, plants that someone else maintained.

The staircase opened into another small reception area. This time, no one stopped Talia. Flint went inside, then found the short staircase to the upper level where DeRicci’s offices actually were.

That staircase spiraled into the outer reception area, presided over by DeRicci’s assistant, Rudra Popova. Popova was both the most efficient and the most humorless woman Flint had ever met. He didn’t like her—and the feeling was mutual—but she was efficient. And DeRicci had said from the first that efficient was better than friendly any day.

He led Talia into Popova’s office and stopped in surprise. A young man sat at Popova’s desk. His cheeks were red, his lips chapped because he was biting them even now. His hands flew across the desk screen and he was clearly monitoring something on his links.

He didn’t even notice Flint or Talia.

Neither did Popova. She was looking at her fingernails as if they were the most fascinating things she had ever seen. Her skin was blotchy, her eyes red and swollen.

If Flint didn’t know better, he would have thought she had been crying.

“Rudra?” he said.

“Oh, Miles,” she said, and she sounded relieved. “Chief DeRicci will be glad you’re here.”

No snide comment, no jealous look. Just a quick and honest statement.

The young man at the desk raised his head, surprised.

“Who’s this again?” he asked.

“I’m Miles Flint,” Flint said stepping forward, his hand out. This was actually a test. Security wasn’t supposed to shake hands upon first meet. Too many people downloaded information from someone else’s palm chips.

“Ephraim Hänsel,” the young man said, passing the test. “I’m helping out.”

Then he glanced at Popova as if he had said too much.

“I take it this is Talia?” he said when Popova didn’t rebuke him.

“Yes,” Talia said somewhat curtly. She did not like being ignored.

“I’ll let the chief know you’re here,” Hänsel said, putting a hand to his ear. Someone needed to break him of that habit too.

Popova was watching Flint. “You know about Arek?” she asked, and something in her tone caught him. Her tone and her use of the mayor’s first name.

“Yes,” he said gently. He didn’t say
terrible
tragedy
or any of those things people said to fill the silence. He wasn’t sure exactly what he could say without being a hypocrite. He wasn’t sad Soseki was dead, but he was upset that Soseki was murdered.

“You knew him?” Talia asked, unwittingly helping Flint along. She had caught the strangeness in Popova’s tone as well.

Popova nodded, her gaze still on Flint’s face. “Maybe too well.”

And then he understood. She had been in love with Soseki. Rudra Popova, the ice maiden, actually loved someone—Armstrong’s uptight mayor for life.

Flint wouldn’t have put them together, but then he wouldn’t have put either of them with anyone. And he hadn’t liked either of them much. So maybe they suited each other.

“I’m sorry,” Flint said, and this time he meant it. Not that Soseki was dead or even that Soseki was murdered, but sorry that Popova was grieving.

Maybe that was why DeRicci wanted Flint up here.

As if she heard that thought, DeRicci flung open the door to her office.

“Miles,” she said. “Thank God. Please come in.”

And so he did.

Fifty-one

The ship was large, old, and nearly hidden behind the webs of protection. Terminal 81 was dim, although the squad leader had ordered the lights raised when the group had finally found Palmette.

Palmette faced Nyquist, a slim lighter in her hand. She didn’t look relieved to see him. If she was in trouble, shouldn’t she have looked relieved?

Nyquist stepped close enough so that he didn’t have to raise his voice. The squad could hear him through the links, of course, but he wanted this conversation to seem private, even though it wasn’t.

He was going on instinct here, and it made him nervous. Especially considering the stakes.

Whatever was in that ship did not mix well with fire. The ship would explode first. The squad could shut down the atmosphere in Terminal 81 (killing Palmette, who wasn’t wearing a suit), but they couldn’t control the atmosphere inside that ship, not unless they got inside. And they wouldn’t, with Palmette in the way.

It was all a matter of timing.

Exquisite and somewhat alarming timing.

Nyquist forced himself to be calm. He had to think only of Palmette, not of the consequences if he failed.

“Ursula,” he said quietly, “what’s going on?”

Her lips thinned. She gripped that lighter so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“You think you’re so important,” she snapped. “You work for the city and you believe in law and justice. Have you ever looked at what you do in the name of law and justice?”

Her words surprised him. He wasn’t sure what he expected from her. Maybe a calm and somewhat quiet request for help. Maybe a coded request, something that sounded like a non sequitor.