The second most recent planet to be colonized by human beings, Darien orbits a star far astray of the normal channels of interstellar travel. It’s the most remote of any colony with a sizable human presence. From what I’ve heard and read about it, it’s a cool, green, and pleasant world, with rolling hills they call “bens,” deep freshwater fjords called “lochs,” and a bounty of interesting and benign plants and animals.
“You left Darien for Brink?” I scoff. “Bet you’re regretting that now.”
“Not yet, but we’ll see,” he says with a beleaguered skepticism that tells me my comment has struck too close to home. “I came here to make a difference, to really do something with my skills.”
I back off a bit. “I didn’t have the former SCAPE exec pegged as a do-gooder.” Growing more curious, I ask, “How did you afford to come here?”
“I came on a heavy freighter, working for the company through the four-year trip. An economist halfway between worlds is actually quite useful to the company, cuts down on communications lag.”
“Hmm.” Before I can say anything else, I notice Aaron Greenman approaching and remind myself to be cool.
He sees us and strolls over with that warm, easy smile of his. “Brady Kearns and Agent Ware! I’m so thrilled you could make it.”
“Dare,” I correct him politely.
“Dare,” he says, “terribly sorry.”
“Thanks so much for having us, Mister Greenman,” Kearns says with an eagerness that might be genuine. “You’re an incredible host.”
“You flatter me, Brady. Tell me, have you had the cheese?” Before either of us can answer, he shouts out to one of the waiters, “Garcon! Here, please!”
The waiter approaches, a short, thin man with dark skin and a couple of noticeable blotches of foundation makeup that probably cover hypocalcemia spots. He stiffly holds out the white tray he’s carrying. On it are small, white cubes with little toothpicks sticking out of them, tied with decorative bows. Kearns and I each take one and eat it, then put the toothpicks in the little waste cup on the tray. Savory flavor floods my mouth: rich, tangy, salty, creamy. Some vaguely spoiled flavor that’s pleasant for reasons I can’t quite identify. Again, I think it would be impossible to describe adequately to someone who hasn’t had it. The experience is overwhelming, and for a few seconds, I can’t help but be distracted by it.
Greenman watches me with what I assume to be amusement. “It’s real white cheddar,” he says, “from cows right here on the ranch.”
“That’s a rare treat,” Kearns says.
The rich man beams with pride. “Any progress on your respective investigations?”
“Actually,” I step in, before Kearns can say anything, “I’d like a quick word about that.”
“Oh? Anything I can do?”
“I need info on a SCAPE employee. A pilot named Frank Soto.”
Greenman bristles. “That’s a fairly big request. We have a confidentiality policy, you know.”
Is he just trying to blow me off, or is he hiding something? He doesn’t give a damn about the privacy of his employees, and I think he knows that I know that.
“Mr. Greenman,” Brady interjects, “Agent Dare thinks she might be close to something.”
Greenman raises an eyebrow. “I’ll talk to legal and see what I can do,” he says quickly, brushing past us and moving on. “If you’ll excuse me.” His big bodyguard trails behind him as he goes back to greeting guests.
“This was a waste of time,” Brady says, not surprised.
“Maybe,” I respond, realizing with some dismay that I’m now thinking of the auditor by his first name. “I got to eat cheese, anyway.”
I can’t help but stew silently on the ride home. The stars are a bright mist in the clear night sky above the long, straight road back to town, through the darkened and silent desert wilderness. They say more individual stars are visible on Brink than any other known habitable planet. I wonder if Earth’s skies are darker, if Farraway’s are less clear.
After several minutes thinking in circles, something that’s been bothering me bubbles to the surface. “Tell me something, Brady. What do you get out of this?”
“I’ve… I’ve already told you.”
“Right, but I’m not sure I see it. Your job is to explain calcium shortfalls. But aren’t those shortfalls huge? Like millions of units a year?”
“On that scale, yes.”
“You really think a weevil leak could explain them?”
“I don’t expect to find a single explanation.”
“Hmm.” I consider that for a second, doing some rough math in my head. “There would have to be hundreds of people processing black market currency with chalk weevils for the numbers to add up.”
“Or just a few doing it on a large scale. Or one person, even.”
“What other leads have you checked into?”
“Let’s see… I’ve inspected the Commerce Board processing center, had random currency lab tested for purity, checked the weigh-ins and weigh-outs when cash goes to the banks.”
Those are the first checks I’d run, if I had his job. See if there are systemic calcium leaks at processing, see if there’s a problem with impure cash tabs, check for theft at the bank level. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Hmm.”
After a minute or two of silence, he asks, “Is there a next step?”
“I’m going to pay a visit to that lawyer tomorrow. I’ll let you know if it turns up anything.”
He gives a slight nod, saying nothing further. As we ride the rest of the way in silence, I stare out my window watching the nearing lights of Oasis City wash into the sky overhead, diminishing the brightness of the dimmer stars, leaving only the strong ones shining against a field of dark purple-gray. Contrast may not equal clarity, but once one goes, the other tends to go with it.
8
It’s another hot day, even though it’s cloudier than normal, with wisps of gray drifting over the tall skyscrapers of downtown mixing with smoke and steam from the industrial zones. The air blows thick and warm over me as I ride across the city to a commercial district on the west side of downtown called Rumville, a triangular cluster of high, robust buildings supposedly modeled after the high-end arcologies on Earth but obviously short of their comfort and quality. The hydro-farming floors at the tops are rough with greenery exposed to the sunlight. In the shadows below them are steel-and-glass luxury residences and office space facing outward, while businesses like chemical plants and finance companies are hidden in the interior among the resource management facilities. The arcologies are supposed to be self-sustaining, like a starship, but everyone knows they draw huge amounts of water and put out huge amounts of waste.
I arrive at the ParkChung Building, an immense, rectangular structure which of course occupies the whole block between Park Street and Chung Street. It’s bordered on the north and south by 8th and 9th, but I guess “8th9th” doesn’t have the same ring to it. Pulling into the parking atrium, I surrender control of my ride to the auto-valet, dismount, and head into the lobby, a broad, crescent-shaped room with a high ceiling. The wall opposite the huge window that faces the street is covered with exotic plants, top to bottom, except for the spaces occupied by little shops. A drug store, a mailing service, a food kiosk. I walk past the tiered fountain in the center of the floor and approach one of the security guards at the reception desk.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“I’m looking for the office of Attorney Troy Sales?” Why did my inflection go up at the end of that sentence? Strange how not being in uniform makes me less assertive. I’m in business slacks and an old-style green plaid button-down, but my shoes are durable casual kickarounds, and my hair’s been blown around in the wind.