The Disappeared Read online

  Of course, she had been panicked at the time. Her case had been denied by the Eighth Multicultural Tribunal. The Rev warrant, issued so many years ago, stood, and the Rev would come for her immediately.

  An old friend who clerked at the Tribunal had sent her a warning before the Tribunal made their announcement. She had no idea how long she had until the Tribunal spoke, but she knew it wouldn’t be long.

  So she had done what she could, researching and finding a Disappearance service. But she hadn’t been as thorough as she should have been.

  That was incredibly clear to her now.

  She’d allowed her panic over being discovered to override her natural caution. She still had funds. Accessing them would be tricky, but it could be done. She could hire a different Disappearance service if she had to.

  And she just might have to.

  At least there was one clause in her agreement with DI that she had memorized. She had done that on purpose, worried that if she hadn’t, she would be stuck in just this situation.

  She could terminate at any time.

  DI wouldn’t be liable for her safety, of course, but they were required to take her to a settlement. They couldn’t just eject her in space and hope that she survived.

  She swallowed hard. Firing DI was as much of a risk as disappearing in the first place. But she had to trust her own instincts. Maybe she could browbeat the crew into taking her to DI’s nearest headquarters and they could rerun her profile. Maybe they could see what went wrong in the San Francisco offices and repair it.

  She shut off the hand-held and slipped it into her purse. Then she slung her purse over her shoulder and walked to the door separating the passenger section from the crew areas.

  The door wasn’t locked as it was supposed to be. Clearly Jenny had forgotten to reseal it when she had brought out the hand-held. Either that or the crew hadn’t sealed it at all, thinking one slight female passenger wouldn’t be a problem, no matter what she had done.

  Ekaterina pushed the door aside and walked through. She had never been in this part of the crew area. The airlock was to her left, a small galley to her right. The carpet was still plush here, although it got thinner closer to the cockpit.

  The theory was that the crew didn’t need luxury, not like the passengers on the space yacht did.

  No one sat in the galley. She walked toward the cockpit, her boots making no sound as she moved.

  Voices filtered toward her. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone sounded official.

  As she peered through the cockpit door, she froze. Through the main portal, she could see the orange and blue stripes of a Rev penal ship.

  “We’ll be evacuating the yacht in thirty Earth minutes,” the pilot was saying through the interlink. He was clearly talking to the Rev. “She won’t know we’re gone. Give it another thirty minutes and you can board.”

  Jenny was sitting beside him, her hands behind her head, as if she were watching a vid. The co-pilot was on the other side, tapping something into the ship’s system.

  The pilot continued. “I’ll be picking up the ship from impound in a week or so. If there’s permanent damage, I’m coming after you.”

  Ekaterina’s mouth was dry. The pilot was selling her to the Rev. He would make more money from them than he would as a contract employee of DI. Supposedly, services like DI screened-out people like him.

  But not in this case.

  The Rev would take her and imprison her for life. Few humans survived in a Rev penal colony for more than ten years. The work alone was too much for the human frame. That didn’t count the xenophobia, the way that Rev inmates treated someone who was completely different.

  She eased away from the door. No one in the cockpit had seen her.

  She had been given a slight chance to save herself.

  Now she had to figure out how to use it.

  Four

  As they stepped out of the ship’s tunnel, DeRicci’s hand-held beeped. She cursed and took it out of her pocket. She punched the screen, information already blinking. “As if we don’t have enough to do. We’ve got another.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Terminal 5,” she said, more to herself than him. Terminal 5, while technically next door to Terminal 4, was a healthy hike from where they were. “What the hell’s that one again?”

  “Suspected criminal activity by a ship’s owner.”

  DeRicci glanced at him. “You’re useful in the docks.”

  “I’m useful most of the time,” he said.

  There was nothing else on the hand-held. Just the order to report to a ship tunnel in Terminal 5. Someone would meet them and explain the situation.

  “I hope to hell this isn’t something complicated,” DeRicci said as she headed back to Terminal 4’s main entry. “I want to put this Disty thing to bed.”

  Flint was feeling uncomfortable. Detectives got one, maybe two cases down here per week total. Now he and DeRicci were getting two in one day.

  “We’re better off taking the train between terminals,” Flint said. “If we walk, we’ll lose that time advantage Headquarters wants us to have.”

  DeRicci frowned. She clearly didn’t like his new outspokenness. But he was tired of letting her run things. She was out of her depth in the Port. He was going to take over this partnership whether she liked it or not.

  He led her to the interior train system. It had been designed to link the various terminals after the Port had taken over the bulk of space traffic control for the Moon. At that point, the Port had mushroomed into something with unwalkable distances. Fifty interior trains ran at set times. Only one ran all the way around the Port, and it was usually crowded.

  Flint took DeRicci to the tracks that worked for the shuttle between Terminals 4 and 5. Because the locals weren’t advertised in the Port, they served mostly as crew shuttles. If tourists had to go from one terminal to another, they took the main, crowded train.

  The train pulled up, its dark glass sides reflecting the lights in the waiting area. The doors slid open silently and three workers in blue uniforms got off. Then Flint walked on. DeRicci followed.

  There were no seats. Passengers held onto bars and metal hand rings. The tougher passengers stood, feet braced, in the center of the car. It took skill and talent to ride the trains that way without getting hurt.

  Flint had learned how to do it, but hadn’t enjoyed it. He gripped the rail now, and DeRicci did the same. They had the car to themselves.

  The moment the door closed, the train sped backwards in the direction it had just come. After a moment, it reached its top speed, moving at a velocity faster than the high speed trains that ran between the various domes littering the Moon.

  DeRicci looked startled and reached her other hand around the metal bar. The train slowed, and then, smoothly, stopped. Even though the movement was even, Flint watched DeRicci’s body yank forward then back. She glared at him as if the effect of the train were all his fault.

  He supposed, in an odd way, it was. He should have warned her about the speed. These trains had been designed for efficiency, not for comfort. Back in the days when the interior train system was first built, Armstrong Dome had been known for its efficiency.

  A lot had changed since then.

  The doors opened. DeRicci touched a hand to her short hair, as if the swift ride had created a wind that ruffled her.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “You did that to torture me.”

  “Maybe that was a secondary reason,” he said with a smile. To his surprise, she smiled back. The expression surprised him.

  He had been blaming her for her unwillingness to give him a chance, when he had once treated his new partners in Traffic the same way. DeRicci had gone through five new partners in five years, all of them beginning detectives. Perhaps it wasn’t so odd that she expected him to prove himself before she started to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  They emerged from the train station into Termina
l 5. It was set up the same as Terminal 4. If a person ignored the signage, the only way to tell the difference between the two terminals was to look at the ships docked nearby. Terminal 5 was nearly full, and none of its tunnels had yellow warning lights.

  A slender man, his dark skin shiny with sweat, stopped in front of them. He had his arms wrapped around a stack of warning signs, hugging them to his chest as if they were more important than he was.

  “Officers?” he asked.

  “Detectives,” DeRicci corrected. She always did that. To her, being called an “officer” was the same as a demotion.

  “Detectives.” He bobbed his head and bit his lower lip. “I’m Stefan Newell. I’m in charge of this terminal. I take it you’ve been briefed?”

  “We’d only been told to report,” DeRicci said. “We’ve just come off another assignment in Terminal 4.”

  “Oh, dear.” Newell glanced at Flint. “I was hoping you would have brought more people with you.”

  That caught Flint’s attention. “Why?”

  “Because we have an unfolding situation. I told your dispatch that. We need as much help as we can get—”

  “We were already at the Port.” DeRicci spoke slowly, as if she were talking to a child. “I’m sure others are on their way.”

  “I hope so. I’ll send the distress call again.”

  “First,” Flint said, “tell us what we’re dealing with.”

  Newell bit his lower lip again, so hard this time that the skin below it turned an odd shade of white. “The border patrol caught a ship leaving Moon orbit. They’re bringing it in.”

  “The border police are equipped to handle their own problems,” DeRicci said. “I’m sure—”

  “What’s the problem?” Flint asked, not letting her finish. She was going to try to leave, and he had a hunch that decision would have been bad for all of them.

  Newell hugged the signs tighter. “It’s a Wygnin ship.”

  Flint felt himself grow cold. The Wygnin almost never ventured into human-occupied space. They rarely left Korsve, their home world.

  “Definitely a border problem,” DeRicci said. “Come on, Flint. We have a case to finish—”

  “Ma’am. Detective. Please.” Despite his words, Newell’s tone had grown harsh. “I’m not handling the Wygnin alone.”

  “You’ll have the border patrol.”

  “They’ll have their hands full.”

  “What’s on the ship?” Flint asked.

  “Children. Human children,” Newell said. “And the Wygnin lack the proper warrants.”

  * * *

  DeRicci sent the second call to headquarters herself. She requested backup and a squad of lawyers who specialized in Wygnin law, as well as translators so that nothing would get misunderstood.

  The entire settled universe had learned to fear the Wygnin.

  Flint had gone to the dock where the ship would land. The dome above it was already opening. The fleet of lawyers and cops and translators wouldn’t arrive in time. He and DeRicci would have to handle the first Moon contact, and pray that they didn’t screw it up.

  The Wygnin had a harsher view of law and custom than any other species humans had come into contact with. The Wygnin view became apparent only over time, as humans learned the hard way not to cross the Wygnin.

  Every space cop learned about human-Wygnin history, partly as a cautionary tale, and partly so that they would do precisely what DeRicci did when she found out what they were up against: ask for legal advice and help with translations. Anything else could result in terrible—but legal—consequences.

  “I don’t like this at all,” DeRicci said coming up beside him. “The Wygnin usually don’t try to slip the border patrol.”

  Flint nodded. He watched as a golden ship flanked by three border ships slowly eased its way through the dome. Two of the border ships guarded the dome’s top. The other ship came down with the Wygnin ship.

  Flint had only seen Wygnin ships in vids, holos or flats. None of them did the vessels justice. The gold winked, even in the thin light, and the ship seemed to float down. There was no obvious propellant, and the entire movement would have been silent, if it weren’t for the hum of the border ships’ engines.

  The border ship landed with the usual thud. The Wygnin vessel set down as if it were made of air.

  At that moment, the dome closed and the two other border ships flew off, probably to continue their rounds. The problem of the Wygnin belonged to the third ship and Armstrong authorities—as personified now by Flint and DeRicci.

  Lucky them. This was turning out to be a hell of a day.

  “Should we go down the tunnel?” Flint asked DeRicci.

  “I want to stay as far away from those bastards as we can,” she said. “The longer we wait, the better our chances of handing them over to the lawyers.”

  For once, he agreed with her logic. Two traffic cops came over and flanked the tunnel entrance, clearly on request from DeRicci. She tapped her departmental interlink again, trying to find out where the backup was. From her harsh tone, it was clear to Flint that they were nowhere in sight.

  The door to the Wygnin ship opened and DeRicci cursed again. She shut off her interlink and sighed.

  “Looks like I get the Wygnin,” she said.

  “I can—”

  “No, you can’t.” She swallowed hard. “I at least have some experience with them. I know a few things to avoid. You have none. I’m just going to baby-sit in holding until backup gets here. You handle the kids, okay?”

  He didn’t want to go near the children. He hadn’t been near children since Emmeline died.

  “Flint?” DeRicci said.

  He didn’t have to answer her because activity started in front of them. A border officer stepped off the Wygnin ship first. From the distance through the tunnel, she looked small. She waited as the Wygnin disembarked.

  Flint had never seen Wygnin before. They moved like their ship, lightly, as if a gust of wind would make them float away.

  They were more ethereal than they seemed on film—almost like negative images of living creatures. There were five of them, although it took him a moment to realize that. They were so thin, they seemed to have no mass at all. And their bodies were nearly flat.

  But he could feel them approach. Something changed in the air around him. Maybe it was a smell, but if it was, it wasn’t one he could readily identify. It was as if the Wygnin themselves were changing the quality of the recycled air, making it more buoyant, richer, just for their presence.

  As they stepped out of the tunnel, they searched the area. Their gazes fell on him one at a time and he resisted the urge to step backwards. Their eyes were the most human eyes he had ever seen on an alien. Maybe they were even more human. They carried expression and emotion so vividly, he could feel it as if it were his own.

  “Look down,” DeRicci whispered. “Show respect.”

  He immediately looked at the floor. Now he was relieved that DeRicci would be handling the Wygnin. He had no idea he had nearly screwed up one of their customs.

  She took a step forward and said something that sounded like a muffled sneeze. So she even spoke a bit of their language. That was a start then.

  “I’m afraid the greeting is all I know,” she said. “I hope you speak English.”

  English, the language humans had chosen as their language of trade. She could have tried Chinese or Spanish, even Japanese, but most aliens learned English first if they learned a human language at all.

  “We—shall—require—translator—” one of the Wygnin said. Its voice was surprisingly deep, given its body’s flat shape.

  “One is on the way,” DeRicci said. She turned toward the border officers. “Can one of you act as translator until then?”

  “We’ll stay until your people arrive,” the female border cop said. “Standard procedure is to take the Wygnin to customs.”

  “Let’s follow it,” DeRicci said.

  Flint still had h
is head pointed down. He felt at a disadvantage.

  “Where are the children?” DeRicci asked.

  “On the border ship,” the cop said. “We thought it better to separate them.”

  “My partner will take care of them.”

  “—No—”

  The word echoed the way that Flint was feeling, but he hadn’t uttered it. He looked up. The Wygnin were rocking slightly as if there was a breeze in the terminal. If there was, he couldn’t feel it.

  “—They—belong—with—us—” The Wygnin that spoke stood in the very front. Oddly, the other Wygnin’s tiny mouths moved as his did.

  “Produce the proper papers and I’ll give them to you,” DeRicci said.

  Flint studied her. He’d never seen her so emotionless and so tough at the same time.

  “They don’t have the proper documentation,” the border cop said. “That’s the problem. They don’t have any warrants at all.”

  She added something in the same sneezy language that DeRicci had used. The Wygnin tilted its head sideways, its golden eyes sending a message of such sadness that Flint felt its echo inside of him.

  Then the Wygnin spoke in its own language and the deep voice seemed melodic, appropriate. As it spoke this time, the other Wygnin did not move their mouths. It seemed like speaking English required a group effort, but speaking its native tongue did not.

  “Tell them that they’ll get the children back if they have proper warrants,” DeRicci said.

  “I have,” the border cop said. “They seem to believe that they don’t need warrants, that notice has already been served.”

  “Remind them they are on our turf right now and we require documentation. Notice served is not enough.”

  The border cop nodded and translated.

  “Tell them we will keep the children in holding until this is settled. If it is settled in their favor, then they will get the children back.”

  The Wygnin’s golden gaze had found DeRicci. Flint noted that she kept her gaze averted. He was beginning to believe that she wasn’t doing it out of respect, but as self-protection.