Buried Deep Part 3

Ki Bowles touched the information chips on the back of her hand. She filtered her sound meters for room noise, trying to get rid of the surrounding chatter. Chairs clanged, voices rose, and people laughed, preventing her from hearing anything that happened near the stage.

She already felt out of touch. She had shut off her infotainment feeds when she had come into the room, hoping her focused concentration would help her find other leads. Instead, she'd actually had to listen to this press conference rather than mult.i.tasking.

She had been about to turn the infotainment links back on when she saw Miles Flint. He had provided enough of a distraction that she had made it to the end of the goofy medal-pinning part of the conference.

Now all she had to do was double-check her recording links, make sure she got everything going on in the room, and hope that she happened on something important.

She had worried about this. She hoped that the sound chip she had placed against the stage's edge when she arrived would get the information she needed.

Bowles continued recording, using wide-angle on her wrist chip, a double-link to the provided overhead camera on another chip, and an eye-level zoom that she had just recently installed. She would get and keep her own personal perspective, just in case this story went big.

Flint hadn't left yet. His lanky frame dominated the left side of the room. He was a distinctive man, and too smart for his own good. When she had first spoken to him, she had been struck by his pre-Raphaelite looks. Those looks-so rare these days-had helped her remember Flint from a previous story.

She had watched him years ago, her gaze caught by his striking resemblance to the European art she had studied when she had been an art history major, before she had come to her senses and had started pursuing a career.

Since she had never seen anyone who looked like him before or since that moment, she was able to make an instant connection between the Retrieval Artist she knew and the grieving father she had first seen when she was a cub reporter.

In those days, he had been conducting a war against the day care center where his daughter had died. Bowles had never seen a man as angry as Flint had been when he discovered that yet another child died from the same trauma as his daughter. Shaken to death by a worker. A preventable death.

Another death had preceded his daughter's. If that death had been properly investigated, Flint's daughter and the other child would have lived, and he would never have quit his job as one of the best computer specialists in the city. He would never have applied to the police academy, worked the s.p.a.ce ports, and then got promoted to detective.

He would never have met Noelle DeRicci, and he would never have become a Retrieval Artist.

From the second time Bowles had seen Flint's unique face, she had known that a major story lurked there. She just wasn't sure what the story was or how to tell it.

Or how, even, to discover it.

Bowles moved closer to the stage, careful to stay as far from Flint as possible. She had worked her way to a comfortable living. She was well-known in Armstrong as one of InterDome's main reporters. She had taken a job anchoring live feeds so that her face would become even more recognizable.

All of her work was good. But the great reporters, the ones who became famous throughout the Alliance and the Outlying Colonies, all had one great story-a career-making story-that sent them on their way. And the really great ones continued to get the best of the best, parlaying an excellent career into a memorable one.

Bowles wanted that, and she knew the only way to get it was through incredibly hard work and a lead that no one else had, a perspective that was uniquely hers. That was what succeeded in the Alliance. Vision, voice, and a spectacular hook, something none of the thousands of other reporters on all the Allied worlds had.

She edged closer to the stage. She still couldn't see a.s.sistant Chief DeRicci, but Soseki bent forward, as if he was talking to someone shorter than he was. Two other mayors from nearby domes hung back, more as protection for the discussion, it seemed, than part of it.

Bowles counted five members of the United Domes of the Moon's Governing Council, three of them representatives of Armstrong and its environs. They were all partic.i.p.ating in the discussion. Something was happening here. Something important. And with luck, Bowles had it all.

She tapped another chip on her wrist, opening a link with the sound chip she'd pressed against the lip of the stage. Still too much chatter. Voices of cops greeting each other, a few saying h.e.l.lo to Flint, someone making a date, and earnest conversation beyond. She couldn't get anything, but maybe she could filter it when she got back to the office, see if she could isolate some of the famous voices.

A hand covered hers. She looked up to find Andrea Gumiela peering at her. Gumiela was being groomed for the next chief's position. She was ambitious, not that smart, but incredibly political.

Rumors around the city now floated the idea that DeRicci would get Gumiela's position. Or maybe even become a.s.sistant Chief of Police, instead of a.s.sistant Chief of Detectives, leapfrogging over Gumiela herself.

"Press conference is over, Ms. Bowles," Gumiela said.

"I know." Bowles made sure there was no animosity in her tone. "I'm getting ambient noise and some extra vids for background."

"That's all it better be," Gumiela said. "If I found out you've been recording private conversation-"

"I wouldn't do that," Bowles said. "But for the record, it seems to me that any conversation held in a press room before members of the press couldn't be considered private."

Gumiela's grip tightened on Bowles' hand, crus.h.i.+ng the embedded chips. One chip clinked as it went off-line. Bowles pretended like nothing had happened.

"That sounds like an issue for the courts," Gumiela said. "And you know they hate deciding freedom of the press issues after the offending story has already made its way into the media."

Bowles shrugged. "I'm not doing anything wrong, Chief. I'm just getting background, like I said."

"I hope that's all." Gumiela let go of Bowles' hand. "It's probably time we clear the room anyway."

Bowles gave Gumiela her best smile. "Do you have a few minutes for an interview? I need some background on a.s.sistant Chief DeRicci for my extended piece on the medal ceremony. I'd also like to find out about the future for Andrea Gumiela."

As Bowles expected, Gumiela's entire expression softened. That woman loved media attention. "How about we go to the hallway, so that we aren't interrupted?"

"That or your office," Bowles said. "Whatever is more convenient for you."

Her chip would have to do its job on its own. Bowles needed to keep this interview short, so that no one had time to sweep the room before she had a chance to return and retrieve the chip.

As she followed Gumiela out of the room, she dropped her scarf beside the door. She needed a reason to return. That was as good as any.

By then, she hoped, she would know what the big conference was with DeRicci and the politicians.

That might not be Bowles's great story, but it would do.

5.

Noelle DeRicci sank into the overstuffed couch on the far side of the mahogany table. Her stomach growled. The restaurant smelled tantalizingly of roast garlic and baking bread.

Flint stood at the edge of the table. A large light with a moonscape painted on the shade hung over the table's center, half obscuring his face.

She motioned for him to sit down. To her surprise, he sat beside her on the couch.

"It'll be easier to talk," he said.

They were in a private room in the Hunting Club, one of Armstrong's most exclusive restaurants. The Hunting Club kept its private rooms free of listening devices. This particular room automatically shut off people's links, all except emergency links.

It surprised DeRicci that Flint felt they would need even more privacy.

But caution was part of his job-and his nature. He had kept secrets from her even when they were partners. Over the years, she had come to realize she would never get to know Flint well. It wasn't until he nearly died on his last case that she realized how much she valued his friends.h.i.+p, whether she knew all his secrets or not.

A waiter came over to the table. The Hunting Club vetted its employees, paying them a tremendous amount so that they'd be incorruptible (theoretically) and requiring that they have no links whatsoever. DeRicci hated her links-she had gotten in trouble more than once for keeping her emergency links off, something she was now forbidden to do-but she couldn't imagine life without them.

The waiter went through a list of specials, offered drinks, and took their order by writing everything on a piece of paper-one of the most inefficient and expensive methods DeRicci had ever seen. This dinner was Flint's treat-even DeRicci, with her high salary and three outrageous bonuses, couldn't afford an average meal at this place.

When the waiter left, DeRicci sighed. "Do you know what they offered me today?"

"Who?" Flint asked.

"The governor-general, basically, speaking for the entire United Domes of the Moon." DeRicci's head was still spinning. She couldn't believe that such ill.u.s.trious people wanted to talk to her, let alone offer to work with her.

"What did they offer?" Flint asked.

"They want me to be the first appointee to a new office," she said. "I'm supposed to be the Chief of Moon Security. I'd make policy on how to defend the domes, coordinate with the head of security for each dome, and-"

"The domes have heads of security now?" Flint sounded surprised.

DeRicci shook her head. "This would be new, and organized by the UDM, not by the Domes themselves. After the two attacks on Armstrong, the UDM Council figured it was only a matter of time before the other domes had major security problems, and it was time to coordinate them."

The waiter returned, carrying their drinks on a tray. Flint had ordered real coffee, made from beans imported from Earth. Leave it to him to indulge in a stimulant instead of something that would relax him. DeRicci had thought of ordering wine, but instead she had settled for water.

As much as she wanted to escape the conflicting emotions of the day, she needed to be clearheaded. Flint was one of the few people-maybe the only person-she could confide in, and she needed to pay attention to whatever he had to say.

"So that's what the whole press conference was about?" Flint asked. "It was an excuse to get some of the mayors, the councilors, and the governor-general together to talk with you?"

DeRicci shrugged. "I'm as taken aback as you are. Maybe more so."

Probably more so. No one had told her about the medal ceremony. When she had left Police Central, she had removed the Silver Moon from her lapel and replaced the medal in its little box. She strongly objected to being rewarded for doing her job, especially when that job had been predicated on the loss of countless lives.

She hadn't succeeded during the Moon Marathon, no matter what Soseki had said. A lot of people had died that day. And she had done nothing positive in the bombing case. There was still no suspect, and no real understanding of why someone (or many someones) had tried to destroy the dome.

"The United Domes are a loose confederation," Flint said. "The mayors have more power than the governor-general. A moon-based post seems to me to be a political move on the council's part, a power grab so that the UDM would eventually dictate policy to the domes."

"I said that." DeRicci sipped her water. It was cold and fresh and tasted better than any water she had ever had before. She resisted the urge to check the paper menu, cleverly disguised to look like an ancient book, to see where the water had come from-or how much it cost.

"And?" Flint asked.

"They denied it, of course," she said. "All the while promising me enough power to make sure each dome followed my security recommendations. My head aches from all the doublespeak."

"Doesn't it strike you as odd that they'd do this at a press conference?" Flint asked.

DeRicci shook her head. "They want this to leak. People are scared right now. They want someone to do something to protect them. There's been talk in the Armstrong City Council of confining aliens to particular parts of the city-"

"But there's no proof that aliens bombed the dome," Flint said. "And the attack at the Moon Marathon came from a human."

"I said that too." DeRicci rubbed her fingers against the cold side of her water gla.s.s. "You know, in the past, I would've gotten yelled at for that kind of outspokenness. Now everyone listens as if what I have to say is important, and then they find ways to contradict me. I think I like the yelling better."

The political realm was completely new territory for her, and she couldn't escape the feeling that she was being used.

"I don't see how leaking this whole idea to the press will make people feel safer," Flint said.

"Here's the psychology," DeRicci said, annoyed that she understood this much of the game. "People don't believe official statements. They do, however, believe leaks, thinking that information ferreted out is somehow closer to the truth."

"But overall security," Flint said, "that's like a UDM police force. We've avoided that since the Moon was colonized."

Double doors in the paneled wall opened wide, revealing the steel walls inside the kitchen. The waiter entered the private room, carrying a tray on one hand as if he were some kind of entertainer.

DeRicci sighed. Maybe Flint had been right about privacy. Every time the conversation got going, it felt like the waiter had to interrupt.

He bowed before them as he took a large bowl off the tray. He set the bowl in the center of the table, then grabbed two plates and placed them before Flint and DeRicci. The bowl was filled with greens and multicolored vegetable bits, all cut so fine as to be unrecognizable. The waiter took some bottles of various oils from a nearby wait station. He dashed each oil onto the greens, then used two large wooden spoons to mix up the entire mess.

The air smelled of olive oil and basil, with a hint of vinegar. DeRicci's stomach rumbled again.

The waiter left. After the double doors had closed, Flint asked, "Are you going to take the job?"

"What do I know about dome security?"

"Seems to me that you're well-known as a public speaker on that topic."

She looked at him sideways. He had gripped both spoons and was trying to dish some greens out of the bowl. He was failing miserably.

She moved the bowl closer to his. "That was more than a year ago, and those talks were about the threats to the domes, not about how to secure the domes."

"Seems to me you have to understand the threats before you can prevent them." Flint managed to drip some greens onto his plate. The greens looked soggier outside of that bowl. The smell of vinegar grew.

"Sounds like you want me to take this job," DeRicci said.

"Better you than most of the so-called security experts I've met," Flint said. "At least you understand the unfairness of most Alliance laws, how complex it is dealing with more than fifty legal alien species, and how humans are just as dangerous as the rest. If we get some xenophobic person establis.h.i.+ng policy, then the Moon becomes an unpleasant place to live."

DeRicci grabbed the bowl, tilted it slightly, and pushed greens onto her plate. Then she set the bowl back in the center of the table.

"I was thinking of not taking the job."

That caught Flint's attention. He set his forkful of greens on the side of his plate, and looked at her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Why?"

"That's not me," DeRicci said. "I'm not political. I'll make everybody mad."

"Is that what you're worried about?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I'm an investigator. I've already been promoted past my skill level. This'll be a nightmare."

"Then say no."

He made it sound so easy. But he was right. Someone else would get the job. Someone else would be the person who used the threat of bombings and biological attacks to create a strong interdome government.

The greens tasted bitter. The vinegar accented the bitterness. DeRicci pushed her plate away.

"I don't want them to create an overall security post. I went to various domes last year and talked to the governments so that they'd make their own policy. What the City of Armstrong needs is very different from the needs of Glenn Station. We have the largest port on the Moon. They have a small private port that's rarely used, and bullet trains. They're not facing external threats."

"I thought you said we weren't either," Flint said.

"Of course we are," DeRicci said. "But we can't shut down the port. We can't move all the Peyti to one side of the dome and the Rev to another. I'm envisioning checkpoints and more identification than we've ever had, and files and files of information just to get from one section of Armstrong to another. Who'd want to live like that?"