Chaing chortled quietly.
‘Lukan,’ terVask called anxiously. ‘Lukan, pal, what happened to you? What did you tell them?’
Lukan tried to say something, which emerged from his battered lips like a hissing cough.
‘What’s he say?’ Perrick asked.
‘I think he wants some water,’ terVask said.
Perrick turned a full circle, then fastened his gaze on the mirror again. ‘I don’t know where Florian went,’ he said loudly. ‘The bastard shot us with some kind of gun. Ain’t never seen anything like it before. It was like it was firing lightning bolts, or something. My legs still ain’t right, I’s got trouble walking half the time. But listen, anything I can do to help you catch him, and I’ll do it.’ He gave Lukan another concerned look.
‘Glad to hear it,’ Chaing muttered.
‘Honour among thieves,’ Jenifa said in contempt.
‘These aren’t thieves,’ Chaing told her. ‘These are gang thugs. Tough as Uracus on the outside, but no brains.’
‘Which one are you going to question first?’
‘Well, terVask is the weaker one, but Perrick is senior, so he’s more likely to know where Billop is. But he might just get stubborn when he knows it’s his boss that he’s got to give up.’
‘Perrick, then. We can’t afford to waste time on terVask. The longer it takes to get Billop, the more distance Florian can put between himself and us.’
Chaing gave her an approving grin. ‘You’re right. Perrick it is.’
*
Interrogation rooms one to five were for people who could be intimidated or misled into revealing what the PSR wanted to know. Rooms six to nine were equipped for prisoners who were tough and stubborn. The centrepiece of number seven was a big wooden X set into the brick floor, with manacles at each extremity. Four bright spotlights on the ceiling shone on it constantly, turning the rest of the room into a glare through which sinister shadows moved, and the relentless questions emerged. The only time that light stopped punishing the prisoner’s face was when one of the interrogators stepped forwards carrying electrodes, or sharp instruments, or heavy cudgels. These tools of the trade were always laid out neatly on a bench at the start, so that the smarter prisoner could see them when they were brought in, before they were fastened to the cross and the big lights turned on. If they were truly smart, they would know just how utterly hopeless their situation was.
Billop was smart, but then Chaing had expected him to be; you didn’t get to be a gang boss by thuggery alone. He’d put up quite a fight when the sheriffs came for him, resisting arrest right up to the end. Now, though, it was different; now the screaming and struggling was from fear as the guards ripped his clothes from him, beating him with leather truncheons every time he resisted. He screamed a lot more as the manacles closed round his wrists and ankles.
The lights came on, and he stiffened as if the illumination was a physical force pinning him to the cross. He squinted into the glare as he pissed himself.
A mocking chuckle came out of the dazzling brilliance as his urine splattered onto the brick floor and trickled into the drain grille between his feet.
‘What do you want from me?’ he sobbed as his body began to shake.
There was only unnerving silence.
‘What is it? What do you want? Please.’
This time there was an answer. ‘I want a name.’
‘Yes. Yes!’
‘You know Florian, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do. I didn’t know he was a Faller. I swear on Giu itself, I didn’t know that.’
‘You worked with him? You paid him for the waltans he caught?’
‘I did. It’s just for granddad’s delight; there’s no harm in that. But I never actually paid him. He has no money.’
‘The name I want—’
‘Yes?’
‘Who introduced you? Who told you he was going to be a warden? That he was the kind who would trap waltans? Who is his friend in Opole? Who will he go to here when he’s in trouble?’
‘Rasschaert!’ Billop yelled at the top of his voice, as if he was expelling something evil from his body. ‘It was Rasschaert! He came to me; he fixed it all up. It was Rasschaert. Rasschaert!’
‘Good. Now, where is Rasschaert?’
‘Huh?’ Billop froze up again.
‘Where. Is. Rasschaert?’
‘He’s . . . He’s . . .’ Tears started to dribble down Billop’s cheeks as he shook his head. ‘Oh Giu, please.’
‘Use the cutters. Remove his toes.’
‘HE’S DEAD,’ Billop screeched. ‘He’s dead. I swear it. Please, that’s the truth. He’s dead. Rasschaert is dead.’
*
The whole team looked at Chaing with eager faces as he stomped into the third-floor operations room just after midnight. He kicked his desk. Hard.
Expressions changed fast. Everyone was abruptly busy with work, heads down at their desks.
Chaing kicked the desk again. ‘Crudding Uracus.’ He sat down, and so nearly swiped his good arm across all the files and folders on the top of the desk, sending them flying. Instead he took a breath and made a pained groaning sound from deep inside his chest.
Jenifa hurried in and slapped a thin folder down in front of him. It had DECEASED stamped in scarlet ink across the front. ‘Billop was telling the truth. Rasschaert was killed three years ago. There was some kind of power struggle with neighbouring gangs.’
‘Yeah. Nathalie mentioned it. Crud! We had him, Jenifa; there was a connection. Rasschaert would have known where he would go, who would take him in. He might even have sheltered Florian himself.’
‘There will be others who know.’
He glared at her. She endured it calmly.
‘Who?’ he demanded with all the petulance of a five-year-old.
‘We’re the PSR. Finding out dirty little secrets is what we do.’
Chaing nodded slowly. The pain in his wrist was just awful. He opened the top drawer and fished out the little bottle of painkillers.
‘You have to come up with a new line of investigation before Yaki gets in tomorrow morning,’ Jenifa said. ‘You have to show you’re on top of this.’
‘I know.’ He tipped four pills into his hand, and swallowed them without water, grimacing as they slid down slowly and awkwardly. For a bad second he thought he might choke. ‘All right, let’s think this through. The positive: we’ve identified Rasschaert as a close acquaintance, close enough to know Florian would be willing to catch waltans for a drug dealer.’
‘But he wasn’t on our original friends-and-family list,’ Jenifa said. Her finger tapped the folder. ‘He was an Eliter, of course. That’s why records division had this file.’
Chaing gave the drab cardboard folder a weary look. ‘Florian won’t have old friends outside the Eliters. We’ve both read his file; he didn’t get on well with anyone at school, and his time in the regiment was a disaster. But Eliters stick with their own.’
‘So it will be an Eliter sheltering him.’
‘Yeah, and the PSR knows every one of them.’ Not true. They don’t know about me. His hand came down on the folder. ‘So let’s start with Rasschaert. Get Kukaida’s people to run a cross-reference. I want everyone Florian knew around the time he was in Opole. Bring them in.’
‘I’ll get on to records division,’ she said briskly.
‘Every time,’ he muttered sullenly.
‘What?’
‘Every crudding time we’re closing in on him, luck snatches him away again. How can anyone be this lucky?’
‘You still think this isn’t a coincidence?’
‘I don’t know. You couldn’t plan to have Lukan smuggle you into the city, not seven years ago. But Florian isn’t stupid, that much is obvious. And he certainly knows someone who can shelter him. Anyone else – anyone – and they’d be in custody by now, and that Commonwealth girl would be alone in a cell with Stonal.’
‘Not sure anyone deserves that,
’ she said with a raised eyebrow.
‘I’ve been there.’
‘Yes. How was that?’
He grinned lamely. ‘I might tell you one day.’
‘I’ll get working on this,’ she said, and picked up Rasschaert’s folder.
Chaing watched her walk across the operations room and gather a couple of investigators together at her own desk. A records division clerk joined them as they started poring over the pages in the folder.
He was sure that they’d come up with a decent list. More possibilities. More arrests and interrogations in the basement. He ought to be satisfied, but it would take time. And the girl, the fast-growing girl from the Commonwealth, was getting older with every day. He wasn’t sure why he feared that so much. Instinct? And maybe the memory of the incredible Warrior Angel.
Perhaps I should throw in the towel and join the other side? Castillito would welcome me, that’s for sure. And they certainly seem to be winning right now. But winning what? The Warrior Angel has had two hundred and fifty years, and she’s not accomplished anything different. Helped us, yes. But a significant victory? Uracus, even she said the Liberty flights were our only hope of survival.
Chaing went over to Gorlan and sat down in front of her desk. It wasn’t that they didn’t get on, simply that their paths rarely crossed. But now Gorlan was pissed off that a hunt for an Eliter was being conducted by someone from the nest investigation division – and a mere captain at that. As far as she was concerned, his appointment as operation commander was a monumental and deliberate vote of no confidence from Yaki. There would be payback for that, later. A bureaucratic ally in the office’s vicious political jungle would no doubt leak some critical piece of knowledge at a strategic time. A detrimental comment would be placed on his permanent administration file. His promotion prospects would be hurt. That’s how it always went. But Gorlan didn’t know he was now with Section Seven.
Just the thought of all that office politics made Chaing weary.
‘Didn’t go well with Billop, then?’ Gorlan asked sardonically.
‘He told me everything I wanted to know, thank you, Comrade. The trouble was, the information wasn’t any use. The only connection between him and Florian is dead. Gang turf war.’
‘Yeah, when they happen, they’re short and nasty. You should talk to Nathalie Guyot. These are not the people who take prisoners.’
‘I didn’t realize Eliters were part of the gangs, too.’
‘Gang bosses aren’t like us, Comrade; they don’t discriminate. And Eliters can be quite an asset to gangs, as their links provide unbreakable communication. Very useful for criminal activities.’
‘Okay.’ Chaing leaned back in the chair. ‘Question for you, Comrade.’
‘Go on.’
‘Say I’m a radical Eliter. I’ve done something bad, struck a victorious blow against the terrible government, and now the PSR is really mad about it. They’re using every trick they have to hunt me down, calling in every favour, every asset, every informer. Every road and rail line and river traffic route out of the city is blocked to me. What do I do?’
‘They’ll catch you eventually,’ Gorlan mused. ‘So there’s only one thing you can do. Like all your hothead friends before you: leave.’
‘Leave to go where?’
‘Port Chana is where rumour has it – a hotbed of Eliter radicals. But we both know the PSR has a disproportionately large office there precisely because of that. So it’s not actually the destination which matters, because it could be anywhere.’
‘An isolated valley in the Sansone foothills, for instance?’
‘Quite. But it’s how you get there which is important. Concentrate on the route.’
‘Ah. I use the equally legendary underground railway.’
‘A little less of the legendary, Comrade. It’s not a formal organization, but the Eliters do stick together and help each other out. Sometimes they use people like Lukan.’
‘Non-Eliters? For this? Really?’
‘It’s been known. You’ve seen people like Lukan don’t care what their cargo is, only that it pays.’
‘So the radical Eliters will get Florian out of Opole?’
‘Every Eliter knows someone who knows someone. Then there’s anonymous links – the general band, it’s called. It’s how they operate. So eventually, when the pressure gets too much – yes, they’ll get him out.’
‘Then all we have to do is find which Eliters are more helpful than others, and make them show us their secret routes out of the city.’
‘Yes.’ Gorlan laughed benevolently. ‘It’s that simple.’
‘Thank you, Comrade.’ Chaing got up to leave, then hesitated. ‘How many Eliters are there in Opole?’
‘Records division will give you the exact number, but it’s in the thousands. Ten thousand, probably, maybe a few more. Why?’
‘So there are more Eliters than there are PSR officers?’
‘Yes.’ Gorlan smiled knowingly. ‘But don’t forget, we have all the guns.’
Chaing nodded thoughtfully, as if reassured by her assessment. And that’s exactly what Captain Philious thought before Slvasta’s revolution.
2
Ry Evine watched the crowds ebb and flow along the street below his wide sash window. As soon as he arrived in Opole, he’d rented a one-bedroom flat above a clothing store on Broadstreet, almost directly opposite the imposing grey-stone monolith that was the PSR office. As far as sheer chutzpah went, he doubted it could be beaten. Watching the people who would be on the alert for him, separated by sixty metres of road, two tramlines – and, on the second day of his vigil, a throng of angry protesters.
Their chanting and singing had been persistent and inventive. He’d never known there were so many songs about freedom, and what had happened to Slvasta’s balls. The banners they waved were direct, too. Demands for the release of prisoners, insults, lewd caricatures . . .
In a strange way he found it rather pleasing that so many people were prepared to stand up to the PSR. His incredibly sheltered life in the Astronaut Regiment had fostered the assumption that the PSR’s power was unchallenged, that they were somehow invincible, infallible. His interview with Stonal had certainly reinforced that view; even the Astronaut Regiment was subject to PSR authority.
It had taken his mad trip to Opole to make him realize just how much of his life had been governed by fear. First, twenty-six years concealing his own precious secret from them, and now defying their deceit. That first day’s train journey he’d sat hunched up on his seat, silent and numb, waiting to be caught.
But it seemed the PSR weren’t so fearsomely efficient as he’d been led to believe. After all, they’d need to be told he’d gone missing – and who was going to do that? Certainly not General Delores, nor Anala. All government organizations were heavy with bureaucracy, even the Astronaut Regiment. And with everyone jittery about the PSR’s strong interest in Liberty flight 2,673, his absence at events and training sessions would not be remarked on; nobody wanted to ask questions about things they shouldn’t be asking. With luck, it might take a week before his absence was officially noticed.
By the time the Opole express pulled in to Gifhorn for refuelling, he’d been gone for nearly two days. With that much time to think, he’d realized his initial flight from Cape Ingmar had been far too impulsive, and he was actually woefully unprepared – anathema to an astronaut. To confuse his tracks a little, he booked into a hotel using his own name, and had his first shower in way too long. He never went back to the hotel, but the registration form would be forwarded to the local PSR office as a matter of routine. When the alert was finally raised, they would waste a great deal of time following that false lead.
After the hotel, he visited three banks and wrote himself a cheque for cash at each one. Only one cashier – at the County Agricultural Bank – recognized him (which he had mixed feelings about). She asked for an autograph for her son, which he obliged, then put his finger to his lips. ?
??I’m here on a break,’ he told her quietly, ‘before the whole Treefall triumph tour kicks off next week. They always give us a few days to ourselves after a flight.’
‘I understand, Comrade,’ she whispered back, delighted to be his confidante.
The cheques gave him enough cash to see him through a few weeks, if he was careful, maybe even a month. If he hadn’t found any trace of the alien spaceship by then, he knew it was all over anyway.
In the bank, he committed his first theft. A man in his mid-thirties with a full beard was getting irate with the next cashier – something about payments on a tractor trailer. A whole array of papers were spread out across the counter to prove his point. Ry walked past him, fussing with his jacket – and deftly lifted the man’s ID papers from the counter as the argument over finance grew even more heated. A fast, confident, conjuring motion, as if he’d been practising for years. Maybe I missed my calling.
Back at the city’s train station he opened the papers and studied them. His victim was Tarial, from some small rural town Ry had never even heard of. The small black and white photo on the ID might be a problem, but Ry hadn’t shaved for four days now, so his stubble should give him a reasonable chance of passing a courtesy inspection. It wasn’t going to get any better.
The ticket clerk never even looked at the proffered ID when he bought a ticket for the Bautzen express. Forty-two minutes later his train was pulling out of the station at the beginning of a journey that travelled the first thousand kilometres overnight to Opole, before starting on its final twelve-hundred-kilometre leg south to Bautzen.
They were still a hundred and twenty kilometres north of Opole as dawn broke, shining its fresh rosy light into the carriage. The guard switched on the tannoy and announced that Opole had enacted a nest alert, and that all passengers would be inspected by the PSR before they were allowed to leave the station.
It was an anxious fifteen minutes in the queue that wound along the platform at the side of the express before he reached the barrier. A very bored and tired junior PSR officer took a fast look at his ID papers, barely glanced at his heavily stubbled face, and waved him on past the armed guards.