Robert Sawyer: The Hand You're Dealt

I motioned for Suze to hit the fast-forward button; it seemed like a typical soothsaying, although I’d review it in depth later, if need be. Poor Dale fidgeted up and down in quadruple speed for a time, then Suze released the button.

“Now,” said Skye’s voice, “the bad news.” I made an impressed face at Suze; she’d stopped speeding along at precisely the right moment. “I’m afraid there’s a lot of it. Nothing devastating, but still lots of little things. You will begin to lose your hair around your twenty-seventh birthday, and it will begin to gray by the time you’re thirty-two. By the age of forty, you will be almost completely bald, and what’s left at that point will be half brown and half gray.

“On a less frivolous note, you’ll also be prone to gaining weight, starting at about age thirty-three—and you’ll put on half a kilo a year for each of the following thirty years if you’re not careful; by the time you’re in your mid-fifties, that will pose a significant health hazard. You’re also highly likely to develop adult-onset diabetes. Now, yes, that can be cured, but the cure is expensive, and you’ll have to pay for it—so either keep your weight down, which will help stave off its onset, or start saving now for the operation…”

I shrugged. Nothing worth killing a man over. Suze fast-forwarded the tape some more.

“—and that’s it,” concluded Skye. “You know now everything significant that’s coded into your DNA. Use this information wisely, and you should have a long, happy, healthy life.”

Dale thanked Skye, took a printout of the information he’d just heard, and left. The recording stopped. It had been too much to hope for. Whoever killed Skye Hissock had come in after young Dale had departed. He was still our obvious first suspect, but unless there was something awful in the parts of the genetic reading we’d fast-forwarded over, there didn’t seem to be any motive for him to kill his soothsayer. And besides, this Dale had a high IQ, Skye had said. Only an idiot would think there was any sense in shooting the messenger.

After we’d finished watching the recording, I did an analysis of the actual blaster burn. No fun, that: standing over the open top of Skye’s torso. Most of the blood vessels had been cauterized by the charge. Still, blasters were only manufactured in two places I knew of—Tokyo, on Earth, and New Monty. If the one used here had been made on New Monty, we’d be out of luck, but one of Earth’s countless laws required all blasters to leave a characteristic EM signature, so they could be traced to their registered owners, and—

Good: it was an Earth-made blaster. I recorded the signature, then used my compad to relay it to The Cop Shop. If Raymond Chen could find some time between stuffing his face, he’d send an FTL message to Earth and check the pattern—assuming, of course, that the Jeffies don’t scramble the message just for kicks. Meanwhile, I told Suze to go over Hissock’s client list, while I started checking out his family—fact is, even though it doesn’t make much genetic sense, most people are killed by their own relatives.

Skye Hissock had been fifty-one. He’d been a soothsayer for twenty-three years, ever since finishing his Ph.D. in genetics. He was unmarried, and both his parents were long dead. But he did have a brother named Rodger. Rodger was married to Rebecca Connolly, and they had two children, Glen, who, like Dale in Skye’s recording, had just turned eighteen, and Billy, who was eight.

There are no inheritance taxes in Mendelia, of course, so barring a will to the contrary, Hissock’s estate would pass immediately to his brother. Normally, that’d be a good motive for murder, but Rodger Hissock and Rebecca Connolly were already quite rich: they owned a controlling interest in the company that operated Mendelia’s atmosphere-recycling plant.

I decided to start my interviews with Rodger. Not only had brothers been killing each other since Cain wasted Abel, but the fingerprint lock (a standard ten-points-of-comparison model) on Skye’s private inner office was programmed to recognize only four people—Skye himself; his office cleaner, who Suze was going to talk to; another soothsayer named Jennifer Halasz, who sometimes took Skye’s patients for him when he was on vacation (and who had called in the murder, having stopped by apparently to meet Skye for coffee); and dear brother Rodger. Rodger lived in Wheel Four, and worked in One.

I took a cab over to his office. Unlike Skye, Rodger had a real flesh-and-blood receptionist. Most companies that did have human receptionists used middle-aged, businesslike people of either sex. Some guys got so rich that they didn’t care what people thought; they hired beautiful blonde women whose busts had been surgically altered far beyond what any phenotype might provide. But Rodger’s choice was different. His receptionist was a delicate young man with refined, almost feminine features. He was probably older than he looked; he looked fourteen.

“Detective Toby Korsakov,” I said, flashing my ID. I didn’t offer to shake hands—the boy looked like his would shatter if any pressure were applied. “I’d like to see Rodger Hissock.”

“Do you have an appointment?” His voice was high, and there was just a trace of a lisp.

“No. But I’m sure Mr. Hissock will want to see me. It’s important.”

The boy looked very dubious, but he spoke into an intercom. “There’s a cop here, Rodger. Says it’s important.”

There was a pause. “Send him in,” said a loud voice. The boy nodded at me, and I walked through the heavy wooden door—mahogany, no doubt imported all the way from Earth.

I had thought Skye Hissock’s office was well-appointed, but his brother’s put it to shame. Objets d’art from a dozen worlds were tastefully displayed on crystal stands. The carpet was so thick I was sure my shoes would sink out of sight. I walked toward the desk. Rodger rose to greet me. He was a muscular man, thick-necked, with lots of black hair and pale gray eyes. We shook hands; his grip was a show of macho strength. “Hello,” he said. He boomed out the word, clearly a man used to commanding everyone’s attention. “What can I do for you?”

“Please sit down,” I said. “My name is Toby Korsakov. I’m from The Cop Shop, working under a contract to the Soothsayer’s Guild.”

“My God,” said Rodger. “Has something happened to Skye?”

Although it was an unpleasant duty, there was nothing more useful in a murder investigation than being there to tell a suspect about the death and seeing his reaction. Most guilty parties played dumb far too long, so the fact that Rodger had quickly made the obvious connection between the SG and his brother made me suspect him less, not more. Still … “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” I said, “but I’m afraid your brother is dead.”

Rodger’s eyes went wide. “What happened?”

“He was murdered.”

“Murdered,” repeated Rodger, as if he’d never heard the word before.

“That’s right. I was wondering if you knew of anyone who’d want him dead?”

“How was he killed?” asked Rodger.

I was irritated that this wasn’t an answer to my question, and even more irritated that I’d have to explain it so soon. More than a few homicides had been solved by a suspect mentioning the nature of the crime in advance of him or her supposedly having learned the details. “He was shot at close range by a blaster.”

“Oh,” said Rodger. He slumped in his chair. “Skye dead.” His head shook back and forth a little. When he looked up, his gray eyes were moist. Whether he was faking or not, I couldn’t tell.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Do you know who did it?”