Adam-Troy Castro - Emissaries from the Dead

“Which doesn’t mean it was linked in fact. They could be unrelated incidents.”

“True,” Lastogne said. “That’s another thing you’re here to figure out.”

O ne of the camp’s hammocks had been cleared for my personal use while I was on-site. It was a space exactly like Gibb’s, complete with hytex link, blankets, spare clothing, and enough emergency provisions to keep me alive for weeks. Lastogne gave me a quick orientation, concluding, “The lights and the hytex are voice activated; you can work here, reading the files, familiarizing yourself with the rest of the background, for as long as it takes. If you want to talk to any of our people, call me and I’ll make sure they come to you. If you need escort anywhere else, link to me and I’ll be over right away. If you need anything to make you comfortable…”

“Well…”

He anticipated my next question. “We have a latrine structure at the center of the camp. No need to flush, the waste just drops out the bottom, with the environment below us functioning as the most elaborate chemical toilet in this solar system. Some of us don’t bother to make the trip, as we can accomplish the same trick by unzipping the access flaps in the bottom of our hammocks.”

I frowned. You normally don’t want to introduce untreated waste into a habitat not evolved to break it down. “I’m surprised the AIsource even allow that sort of thing.”

“You shouldn’t be. The most sensitive part of the ecosystem, the Uppergrowth, is above us, and shit, once released, doesn’t gain altitude. Not even a trained diplomat’s. As for everything below us, well, there isn’t a single compound in the human body capable of surviving the lower atmosphere intact. The ocean layer won’t even feel the ker-plop.”

I thought again of a human being falling that distance, and shuddered. “Anything else?”

“For bathing, you’ll have a sonic kit in that pack over there.” He indicated one of the many bundles hanging from the O-shaped spine on hooks. “If, on the other hand, you’re one of those people who absolutely can’t do without running water, our ship in the station hub has full recycling systems. Our exiles there have nothing better to do than take care of you. It’ll take you the better part of an hour to fly there and back, but it can be done, and it’ll even save you some time, since you have to be at the hub for your interface with the AIsource first thing tomorrow morning anyway. Do you want a ride?”

It sounded like a test, one that made perfect sense: stationed in this place, I might have been equally unwilling to trust anybody who couldn’t stand local conditions. “No. I can wait for the morning.”

Lastogne didn’t bother to show even conditional approval. “Then, if you need nothing else, I’ll let you rest, so you’ll be fresh when the suns switch on.”

He didn’t wait for my response but instead scrambled up the flexible floor to the exit. There was no haste in that wordless retreat, no rudeness, just the swift and assured efficiency of a man who believed he’d already provided every answer I could want. As my long list of hates includes having my needs anticipated, I waited for him to reach the threshold before calling him back. “I’m not done.”

The bastard didn’t even turn. “Oh?”

“A few final questions.”

When he slid back down the slope to my side, his grin was so insolent I knew that he’d expected the summons. “I doubt very much that they’re ‘final,’ Counselor. You strike me as the thorough type.”

“I try to be. But for now: Who sent for help from the Judge Advocate? Was it you or Gibb?”

“Gibb had me take care of it.”

“Did he ask for me in particular?”

“No. I don’t think he ever heard of you, before today.”

I’d suspected that when he greeted me with actual human warmth. I don’t often get that from people who already know my background. “Did you request me?”

“I would have if I’d thought of it, but I had no way of knowing you were available. No. I just sent word to New London and let them decide who to send.”

Bringen had told me I’d been specifically requested. “Did the message pass through any hands other than Gibb’s, or your own?”

“No. We currently approve all out-station traffic. Why?”

Somebody here was lying, though I didn’t have enough information to determine whether that liar was here or back home. “You called Warmuth an idealist.”

“She was.”

“You also make it pretty clear that you did not consider that a compliment.”

“I didn’t and I don’t.”

“You didn’t like her?”

He hesitated. “It wasn’t a matter of personal like or dislike.”

“Did you or didn’t you?”

“I enjoyed her company.”

“But you don’t think she was as wonderful as Gibb says?”

He hesitated a second time, just long enough to establish that he didn’t want to speak ill of the dead. “I suppose you could say she had an excessive hunger for novelty. She kept saying that she left her homeworld because she wanted exotic experiences, and that being open to such things was part of being alive, but there was a self-serving element to the way she went about it. It gave the impression she saw people and strange places as entertainments the universe programmed for her specific amusement. Talk to the Porrinyards; they’ll tell you.”

“And the other victim? Santiago?”

“She was even more unpleasant, but straightforwardly so. Had a bitter streak, in part because of the kind of place she came from. Wanted everybody to know she’d suffered more than the rest of us. Had the distinctively subversive edge of somebody who would have razed all human society to the ground if she could. She liked to tell everybody how corrupt and useless she found the Confederacy. I’m sympathetic to such talk, so I tried to engage her in personal conversation a couple of times, but ideological ranting was all she was set up for. Professional enough, but determined to just do her job and earn out her contract. She hated Warmuth, by the way.”

“Why?”

“Warmuth kept trying to understand her.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Some people resent being treated as research projects.”

Having lived much of my childhood under a magnifying glass, I empathized. “Were there any confrontations between them?”

“Just Warmuth being invasive and Santiago freezing her out. If they weren’t both dead, I would mark them as perfect suspects to finish each other off.”

“Was it really that bad?”

“Santiago was like us,” he said. “You and me, I mean. She did not want friends. Warmuth was of the opinion that everybody needs friends even if they believe otherwise. She declared Santiago a personal project and kept pushing. Santiago finally got mad and pushed her around a little, at which point Warmuth declared Santiago persona non grata.”

“I’ll want the report on the incident. As well as the names of any witnesses.”

“Expected. I don’t see it as all that relevant anyway. We investigated Warmuth’s recent activities when we lost Santiago, and I can assure you she had neither the means nor opportunity to do that kind of damage to Santiago’s hammock.”

I nodded. “And Gibb? What’s your personal take on Gibb?”

“You’re talking about my immediate superior, Counselor.”

“Answer the question.”

“I will,” he said. “But I’d be interested in hearing your own take first.”

I considered telling him it was none of his business, but supposed the question harmless enough. “He gave the impression he tries too hard.”

“He does. And he’s somewhat more dangerous than he initially seems.”