Mark Tiedemann - Chimera

The idea that Nyom was no more than an incidental casualty grated, but it made a kind of deeply banal sense. Rega entertained conspiracy theories, believing the universe was being manipulated by unseen cartels and malevolent forces. But Coren had worked for the government; he knew better. Things were a mess most of the time. Coren took compensatory comfort in that, after he thought about it for a while. It meant, finally, that no one was really in charge, and in the end he preferred it that way.

But it was intellectual comfort. In his gut, he wanted very much to blame someone when things went wrong. He very much wanted to hold vast powers responsible and perhaps try to bum them down to atone for their misdeeds.

He wanted Nyom's death to mean something.

It did not. Except to him. It was difficult seeing that as sufficient.

Coren glanced around. The walkway carried him now through an office district. Stairs led up and down into a jumbled landscape of boxy office complexes, some with windows, most with illuminated signs giving the name of the company or just a number. Walkways and enclosed corridors crossed above him, connecting one side to the other, and above that were the larger stained surfaces of higher levels. He saw a grid marker pass by and started moving to the slower lanes.

He still had another person to question: Tresha. What to ask her, though?

To begin with, why kill a data troll and take her place? Perhaps the information Towne had commissioned her to find related directly to the baleys. But how?

And he was not not certain that the woman was this mysterious Tresha. It was simply a conclusion-a logical one, but not something upon which he could be absolutely certain. By the time he got back to the embassy, perhaps Ariel would have made the final determination.

Two more exits. Three people came from the opposite direction. Coren followed them with his eyes as they passed by and continued on

Twenty or so meters behind him two people rode his lane. A man and a woman. Immediately his fatigue seemed to subside, replaced by a wary tension. He kept his posture unchanged and looked ahead. A corridor split off from the avenue, but too close to make his exit look natural. He was four exits from the most direct route to the Auroran Embassy.

Perhaps it was only coincidence. He was fairly sure Tresha was under guard at the Auroran Embassy, but that left her "muscle," Gamelin, still loose. Coren had no valid reason to feel that he was being followed, but…

He watched the corridor pass by and casually stepped over to the next slower lane. Only one separated him now from the stationery lanes. He glanced back. The couple had moved closer.

Coren stepped to the slowest lane. He saw an archway approaching that opened on a public mall. At five meters, he left the moving lane and strode purposefully toward the arch. He heard footsteps behind him.

He passed beneath the arch and ran.

The mall was a collection of cafes and clubs. The urgent throb of music pushed at the air. People looked up from tables nearby as he sprinted past.

He reached the far end to be confronted by a broad stair heading up. Behind him, the two people came running.

Coren bounded up the steps, three and four at a time. His breathing was heavy at the top, where he came to a large plaza with a holographic fountain in the center. Color and shape danced and shimmered thickly in the air.

He skirted the perimeter of the fountain and palmed a stunner. He thumbed off the safety and searched for an open door, but there were only windows encircling the plaza. On the opposite side, another staircase led up to the next level.

Coren judged the distance, took long strides, and hit the rim of the fountain. He closed his eyes tightly as he jumped across two meters of water to land on the edge of the central display platform. One more step and he slitted open one eye. He stood in the middle of the holographic display. All around him color prismed, split, washed one into the other. He glimpsed the top of the stairs he had ascended through brief gaps in the imaging. Crouching, he watched.

The pair came into the plaza and stopped. They exchanged glances and drew weapons, but through the dance of light Coren could not tell what kind of pistols they held. Each one circled the fountain in the opposite direction. Coren watched the woman, turning as she moved.

They joined on the other side of the fountain, spoke briefly, then hurried up the next staircase. Coren counted to ten and jumped out the far side of the display.

He wanted to continue running, reach the embassy, and worry about these two later, but that would be sloppy. He did not know if others waited further along the way, a second team waiting to pick up where the first left off. Slowly he walked around the fountain until he could see the landing above. Empty.

Silently, he walked up the stairs.

At the top, just beyond the wall that rose on either side of the landing, he found a boulevard. Residential warrens lined the far side. Personal transports sped by in both directions. He saw a moving walkway across the six lanes. A bridge spanned the trafficway to his right. He leaned cautiously out and glanced down the walkway, left and right.

The woman stood about three meters along, pressed against the wall. She seemed to be watching the footbridge. A moment later, Coren saw movement on it-the man.

It was a clear shot. He aimed carefully and fired. The man spasmed briefly and fell.

The woman made a move in the direction of the bridge. Coren rushed up behind her. She started to turn, bringing her own weapon up, when he reached her. He grabbed her gun hand and pushed it down sharply, bending the hand forward against the underside of the wrist. Her fingers loosened automatically and the weapon fell.

But then she drove her foot back against his shin. The pain surprised him. He lost his grip and she broke free. She spun around and slammed the heel of her hand against his collarbone. Coren snapped back against the wall. He saw her arm go back, preparing for another blow. Gracelessly, he kicked her across the ribs. She staggered back and fell to the sidewalk.

She sat up, began to rise. Coren dropped to one knee between her legs and pushed his pistol against her cheek.

"Tresha?" he asked on spec.

She frowned. "Who?"

He saw a shoulder holster beneath her jacket, and pushed the short coat off her. The rig held a commlink, restraints, and an ID folder. He plucked the little black case out and flipped it open. "You're a cop?"

"Chavez. Homicide. And you're in a lot of trouble," she managed to say, her voice shaking.

"Why are you following me?"

She glared at him. Coren dropped the ID wallet in her lap and stood.

"I don't have time for this. You tell your-"

"Put down the weapon!"

Coren turned. A uniform cruiser stood ten meters off now, two officers alongside the vehicle, weapons drawn.

"It's all right," he called, raising his weapon, fingers spread. "I have-" "Time to wake up. You weren't stunned that badly. Come on."

Coren resisted opening his eyes. He had been aware of sounds around him for some time, though it was hard to judge how long he had actually been awake. Neural stuns did odd things to time sense, among other things.

He recognized the voice, though. He blinked. The light was low, for which he was grateful.

A broad-shouldered man with short, graying hair stood above him, watching, his bright green eyes intent.

"Inspector…Capel?"

"Very good, Mr. Lanra. Let's hope the rest of your memory works as well. Can you sit up?"

Coren closed his eyes, trying to orient himself. He was lying on a cot. He sat up slowly, levering himself with his arm. His left shoulder throbbed with deep pain and he sucked air between his teeth.