Under Cover of Darkness (32 page)

Jihane Noskateb

 

 

T
wenty-two young men and women had chosen the Exiles' path, along with Elza Ragon. They had sworn together, on the ancestral fire, three vows.

I will never betray the trust, the name, the shelter of my family
had been the first, and the easiest. They had grown up together, learned together how special, how precious their family was, discovered together the pride and love that came with it. Stepping now into duty had felt like a reward.

I will never forget, I will never remember.
That one had made no sense, then, but they had accepted it.

The last was the strangest, and most important:
By my choices and life, I will help bridge humanity's differences, lest anyone has to find peace in exile ever again.

They had thought they were just words, but they swore with all their heart.

Then, Grandmother started telling them a tale. The tale of their origins.

When I came back to work, on Monday morning, nothing had changed. The cheerful, “Hello Elizabeth!” of my coworkers, the bright colors on the walls, even the pile of work Magyd had left on my chair with an ephemeral soft-screen note: “Enjoy!”—everything was as it had been.

It all felt wrong.

I remained standing before my desk, not knowing what to do with myself. The ephy note seemed to mock me, and I wanted to hurt Magyd for daring . . .

I blinked back tears. Swallowed irrational anger and fear. This was a day like any other, for him. For so many more.

I sighed against the useless thought. Put his ephy note carefully on my desk, where it was recorded and saved just as it disappeared.

My throat tightened at the sight.

Pushing the thought aside for now, I took the memo-rods from my chair and added them to my own database, for later treatment. Took my coffee mug from its compartment, carefully, so as not to brush the other one there, and went to the coffeemaker, in the outer room, like I did everyday. I managed to smile at my coworkers, even exchange a few pleasantries.

It left ashes in my mouth.

As I got back to my chair, I nervously checked the knot of my scarf, two scarves, really, red and yellow intertwined and wrapped around my shoulders, and twisted my dragon ring back to its proper position on my finger. Then I started with my usual to-do list of the day.

Anna was dead, and the world had not stopped.

That's life, isn't it?

 

I had been working for three hours without pause or thought when Juliet, our junior administrator, instant messaged me to check if I had received the secured file she wanted me to reread.

I opened my inbox with the faintest tinge of guilt at not having done so earlier.

Beyond my desk, I could see people passing by, in the outer room. A cluster had formed next to the coffeemaker. Had the news reached them already?

A soft, computer voice told me I had three messages waiting for me.

Opening the first one with a short, vocal order, I sipped cold coffee and frowned at the bitter taste.

Then I looked back at the holoscreen, frowned, cold coffee forgotten.

The mail had been sent on Friday evening.

“Dreadful Monday, isn't it?” it read. “It's still two days earlier for me though, as I type this, and I'm preparing for my weekend. With Roland. I'm probably late for work as you read this. So why don't you take my new mug out of your drawer, and bring some coffee to my office so when I finally decide to show up at work, we can share what happened to both of us in the meantime? I promise I won't talk about Roland. At least not too much . . . ! Anna.”

I was halfway to the coffeemaker, a mug in each hand, before I realized what I was doing.

Magyd was already there; he took one look at my face, said, slowly, “So, you've heard, too? About Anna?”

I could only nod.

Valerian, a young man from expeditions, was coming toward us. “They're sending someone to investigate,” he told me eagerly.

I dropped the mugs on the nearest table and checked my scarf again. My fingers, my brain felt numb. My coworkers' voices were far away.

“He's here.”

That was Celyn, the receptionist.

I turned toward her, to ask who had come, then remembered. They were sending someone to investigate Anna's death.

I started retreating toward my office. I wanted to be left alone with Anna's mail, pretend it was still Friday.

But the main door opened then. For a second I didn't believe it.

He had come back, he was here . . .

I remained, frozen, drinking in the familiar sight of this man who had been part of the family, who had been closer still. Now more of a stranger.

The thought brought me back to the present.

He isn't one of us anymore.
I schooled my face, my feelings.
Hasn't been for the last ten years.

People around me were watching him with open curiosity. Celyn was talking with him, asking if he wanted coffee or anything. Magyd was walking toward him.

But he had let go. He didn't even wear the marks Grandmother had taught us anymore.

Magyd was now at his side. My boss, with his small, wiry body, his pale skin and hair, looked fragile next to Lewis' taller, darker presence. Lewis' eyes were that dark gray I still looked for in storms and dusk. His body had grown leaner, stronger. Or maybe it was his blue-and-silver leather Investigation Force uniform.

A sudden, absurd urge to laugh bubbled inside me and it was all I could do to keep a straight face.

She hasn't changed.

Her calm, strong face, with those almond-shaped brown eyes hiding depths of green and gold, held an expression I could no longer read, but I knew it like I knew my own. Differences only enhanced her. Her face had matured, and the lines around her mouth hinted at smiles, laughter, at tension and focus, too. Her hair had grown; she wore it loose, running along her bare arms, like cool, black silk against her chocolate skin.

Her body was fuller, rounder.

She was dressed, as she had always been, without color and little seduction, in a large, gray pair of trousers with a tight, black top. The only color was her scarf . . . and it was tied with a single, right-sided knot.

A ten-year-old reflex made me check her hands.

She was wearing the dragon ring on her right hand's middle finger, tail facing us, its head probably biting softly in her palm.

I blinked, as if it was enough to erase the sight.

Never remember
.

I turned away from her and back to the task at hand.

 

“My name is Lewis Second-Sanracyn.” I was happy to hear that my voice was strong and firm. “I realize that, for most of you, this is news. Your colleague, Anna Long-Karangel, was found dead last Saturday in her flat.”

What I didn't tell them was that it had been her lover, Roland First-Sonj, who had found her. First med reports said that she had been drugged. She had not suffered, but had probably died in her sleep. The poison was a slow, if lethal, one. The cuts had been made while she was dying, or just after her death; the wound hadn't bled, and the symbol carved in her mutilated throat was easy to read.

If the macabre arrangement had been meant for First-Sonj, then it had worked admirably. The young man had tried to commit suicide, messing our death scene that much more.

I watched closely for reactions among Anna's coworkers. I had read their files earlier today, but they had been text-only, and I had yet to match data and names to faces.

Shock, sadness. One or two were looking elsewhere, as if death was contagious.

The receptionist went back to her desk. The outercom rang, and she answered with the same cool voice that had greeted me. Yet there were tears in her eyes.

Magyd Charafi, the department supervisor, had asked me to give his people time to settle in before I came and disrupted their day. Now he was walking from one to the next, with a soft word or a gesture of comfort.

I decided I liked him.

Editing only a little, I went on:

“An investigation is ongoing to determine if it was a suicide, or a murder. I will need your help. Mister Charafi will let you know if I have questions for you . . .” I paused briefly, glanced in their boss' direction. He nodded.

“I realize this is not an easy task, with the news of your coworker's demise still fresh, but it will help us understand what happened to Anna Long-Karangel.”

I finally glanced back at her. She was looking at two forgotten mugs on a table. Waiting for someone to join her?

There had been only one Elizabeth in the files. It had to be her, I realized, even though the file had an outsider's name on it, not her family name: Elizabeth First-Jandarc. She had been Anna's closest friend.

She was first on my interrogation list.

 

They gave me a room, at my request not far from the entrance door. I could see everyone milling around, at first nervously, then caught in the day-to-day business of work and office relationships, never quite easing back into natural patterns. Only some of them had really known Karangel, but all seemed affected by her death.

My boss had been clear. This had to be conducted quickly, and discreetly.

The deceased's lover, Roland First-Sonj, was the son of Joanne First-Sonj, one of our Lawriters. The affair hadn't been flaunted: the son was a first-waver, after all, a descendant, like I or Elza, of the first wave of humanity to leave Earth's cradle, while Anna had been a Longer.

I had looked carefully, through the files, and in the office. She had been the only Longer. The rest were evenly divided between Firsts and Seconds. And while the Seconds' ancestors had left Earth a century after the rest, they had reached the already colonized clusters before the Longships, and more importantly, with unchanged bodies.

Even though she had been obviously well-liked, Anna Long-Karangel must have stood out here, her elongated limbs and features a constant reminder of her ancestors' means of travel away from Earth.

I shuddered to think that, more than a hundred and fifty years after the last multigenerational Longship's arrival, heated discussions were still raging to know if Longers and their descendants were still human by any standard. Four generations and as many genetic mutations and adaptation enhancements during their long travel from Earth had, if you listened to some, created a different species. And thus thought our local Lawriters. They were now proposing a different legal definition of Longers.

Roland First-Sonj's mother was spearheading the proposal.

Roland himself hadn't cared, not for the political aspect, nor the racial one. In truth, he didn't seem to care about anything anymore.

I had gone back to their mansion, unannounced, earlier this morning. The Lawriter had bruises under her bloodshot eyes, but she had greeted me with steel and a warning. Roland was constantly reliving the moment when he had stepped in Anna's flat. His alibi held. But he felt responsible for her death, as if coming sooner would have changed anything. Did I want to add to his guilt by asking more questions? Did I want a gun to shove in his mouth?

A politician with a stronger sense of family. I had bowed to her, and left.

It was a habit, to go back in my mind to what I knew of a case over and over again, each time adding a piece to the whole until a clearer question emerged. And once you knew which question to ask, the answer was not far behind.

But this time, it wasn't a question that was taking form.

It was a face.

Elizabeth First-Jandarc.

Elza Ragon.

He asked no question I couldn't or wouldn't answer. Nothing outside the case.

We were seated with the large, meeting table between us. We both had a mug of coffee in hand.

“When did you learn of Anna Long-Karangel's demise?”

“I received a call from the hospital, I . . .” Words caught in my mouth. “I was the first name on her contact list.”

“When did you see Anna Long-Karangel for the last time?”

“On Friday,” I said, my eyes on my coffee. Smoke rose, drawing patterns only I could see. “I left work at four in the afternoon, and she was still there. I went into her office . . . said good-bye . . .”

“Why did you leave at four? Is that usual?”

“No. But I had family visiting from the capital . . .”

I glanced up from my mug, but he wasn't looking at me; he was taking notes, his face registering nothing.

As if he remembered nothing of the family.
Did he forget me?

His next questions were as impersonal as the first ones.

He got up after a while, thanked me for my cooperation. I got up too, nodded, and headed for the door.

Just before I opened it, he took my right hand in his. Stroked my ringed finger once, in the family's silent greeting pattern.

My skin tingled still, hours later, as I made my way home.

He hadn't forgotten the family, then.

 

“I may have to go. There is an investigation going on at my office. The investigator said he'd be back.”