“What the fuck …”
“Move, now,” Sid snapped. They hauled Adrian out of the squad car and into the lift. It took them straight up to the second-floor secure holding section.
Adrian had clearly been getting ready for work. He had his suit trousers on, and a smart shirt, cuff-linked but not buttoned up to the neck. The tip of his red-and-gold tie was flopping out of his pocket.
Incredulity had quickly turned to anger as he was hustled into the interview cell. That was soon vanquished by worry when Sid reappeared with Aldred.
It was a classic arrangement. Square room with no window. Table in the middle with two seats on either side.
“You don’t need a lawyer,” Aldred said.
So Adrian sat by himself, trying not to look too perturbed by his strange morning. He was in his midforties, similar enough to the victim.
Sid and Aldred sat facing him, and half the case team was hooked in through a secure link, as was Ralph Stevens—wherever he was. A strange moment for Sid, questioning a man with the face of the murder victim, supported by another of the identical clones. Not that he was particularly religious, but there had to be something fundamentally wrong with distorting nature in such a fashion.
“Could you start by giving the station network your identity code, please,” Sid said.
The simple binary pulse materialized in Sid’s iris smartcell grid as a purple line. Confirmed as Adrian (or at least his e-i), and that code was identical to one a North had given to the St. James network at eight oh three AM that Friday. “I have a problem,” Sid said. “A North using your code went into the St. James singletown on the day of the murder. He didn’t come out. At least, not using your code.”
“Well it wasn’t me,” Adrian protested.
“That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“No. You don’t understand. I was on St. Libra. I remember that week well enough. I got mugged.”
“Mugged?”
Yes. Look, I’m over there three weeks out of five. I supervise management at half our refineries. It’d been a tough week, so I went to a club in Highcastle to chill down.”
“When was this?”
“In St. Libra terms? Early evening. The days aren’t synchronized, you know. A St. Libra day is about eight minutes longer than an Earth day. So, yes, early evening on St. Libra. Thursday on Earth.”
“All right,” Sid said. “You were at the club. What club?”
“Dervashe, on Thirty-Fourth Street.”
“I know it,” Aldred said. “It’s quite exclusive, several of us have membership.”
“Yeah, well, anyway,” Adrian continued. “It started out a decent night. There were a couple of girls who were interested. We sat together, met up with friends. Had a meal, some drinks. Danced. Bumped some tox. Then next thing I know I’m in the manager’s office, it’s about four o’clock in the morning local time, and there’s a killer pain on the side of my head.”
“Did anyone see anything?” Sid asked.
Adrian pushed his lips together, chewing on embarrassment. “The club security people, they found me in a stall. They claim I fell and hit my head.”
“Did you?” Aldred asked firmly.
“Who knows? I don’t even remember going into the gents’.”
“How much tox did you have?” Sid asked.
“Hardly any.”
“Okay.” And Sid had to work hard to keep the disbelief from his voice. It was a standard victim claim; No, I never touch the stuff; that or it was a
bad batch
. Either way: Not My Fault. “So you came back to Newcastle?”
“Not right away. I have a flat in Highcastle; cheaper than a hotel given how much time I spend there. So I went back there for a few hours to clean up and get ready to come home. That’s when I realized it was a mugging. I didn’t have my GE visa chip. And, trust me, you really need one of those to get back through the Border Directorate on this side.”
“Anything else missing?”
“Not that I noticed, no.”
“All right, your visa chip is missing. What did you do?”
“I went to our offices in Highcastle. They sorted it out for me. We do have some clout in Brussels, after all. The directorate issued me with a temporary chip, and I came back through.”
“When?”
Adrian sucking down some air. “Late Friday, Newcastle time. It was night when I got back, I know; there were fireworks going off all the time. That fusion plant contract, I guess. And the northern lights were strong, I remember them.”
“Okay, thank you.”
Sid and Aldred went out into the corridor. There was an armed guard on the interview room—police detectives, not agency people. They walked toward Office3.
“So, what’s he like?” Sid asked.
“Not a toxhead, if that’s what you mean,” Aldred said.
“So he got slipped a mickey?”
“Looks like it.”
Ian and Reannha were waiting for them in Office3, big smiles on their faces.
“What?” Sid asked.
“We just checked,” Reannha said. “The GE Border Directorate records show Adrian North coming through the gateway on Friday, January eleventh, at six forty-eight AM.”
“Our unknown used Adrian’s visa chip,” Sid said.
“Yes, boss,” Ian said. “Then Adrian North came through the gateway again at ten thirty-one PM on Friday the eleventh, this time using a temporary visa chip issued by the Border Directorate office in Highcastle.”
“And they didn’t fucking notice?” Sid asked.
“The original visa chip was reported missing at eleven fifty AM,” Abner said. “And the Border Directorate automatically canceled it so a temporary one could be issued. You can’t use a visa chip with any identity other than your own.”
“But a North with the correct identity codes …,” Sid filled in.
“Exactly.”
“So we do have an imposter North in Newcastle,” Sid said. The satisfaction of knowing was like knocking back a triple vodka: a dose of pure joy.
I was right, this is a corporate scam. There’s no stupid alien monster, there never was.
He chuckled. “Oh crap on it, how much has that St. Libra expedition cost the taxpayer?”
Ian was grinning widely. “Hundreds of millions.”
“More like billions,” Reannha said.
“Can I be the one that tells Elston?” Sid asked Aldred.
“It’s not that funny,” Aldred said stiffly. “Because you’re implying this was a North-against-North corporate operation.”
Sid’s smile fell away. He glanced at Ari and Abner, who shared their brother’s expression of heated disapproval. Three identical faces with matching intent directed at him was intimidating. “Aye, and what does it look like to you?” he said belligerently.
There was a long silence while Aldred marshaled his argument. “I don’t know,” he conceded.
“Thank you,” Sid said.
“It’s very hard to accept. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“I appreciate that,” Sid said. “But to me it’s quite clear. An unknown North came through the gateway, using Adrian’s identity, and went to the St. James singletown. We then have two possibilities. Either this fake Adrian killed one of you and assumed his identity, or he himself was killed.”
“That would explain why we’ve never been able to identify the body,” Abner said grudgingly. “Which has always been a real concern.”
“So it’s a B North behind all this, then,” Ian said.
“Definitely a B North that came through,” Sid said.
“Then he was the murder victim,” Aldred said. “Because there’s no way one of us would kill another.”
“His socks,” Ari said. “They were drensi wool, remember. Only available on St. Libra. They killed a B.”
“Who’s
they
?” Ian asked cynically. “This is all you.”
“I’m sure you’d be happier believing your brother was a victim of someone else,” Sid said. “But what about an unstable North? Are any of you prone to psychosis?”
The three clones exchanged a troubled look.
“Some of the 4s are a bit flaky,” Ari admitted. “But we know the victim was a 2.”
“We’ve been through this,” Ian said. “If there’s an imposter, then he’s also a 2. We checked all of you.”
Abner cleared his throat. The whole office looked at him. “There is Zebediah,” he said.
Aldred let out a hiss of exasperation.
“Who’s Zebediah?” Sid asked.
“That’s what he calls himself now,” Aldred said reluctantly. “Zebediah was one of our bothers: Barclay, a 2. He was badly shaken up by Bartram’s murder, there was some kind of breakdown. He changed his name to Zebediah and started this weird crusade through the St. Libra’s Independencies.”
“What sort of crusade?” Eva asked.
“He wants to shut down the gateway,” Abner said. “He claims the planet is being contaminated by human cultures, and that it must be isolated so the residents can live in harmony with the planet. Basically, he’s a super-green environmentalist who wants to put back the clock and get rid of the algaepaddies.”
“Where is he now?” Sid asked.
“The age is completely wrong,” Aldred said. “Zebediah is in his sixties. The fake Adrian was in his forties.”
Sid wasn’t going to take that kind of diversion. “Do you keep track of him?”
“Not really,” Aldred said. “We don’t consider him a real threat. To the people living in the Independencies he has a degree of novelty value as a North rejecting his brethren, but his followers are more of a cult than a political movement. There’s not that many of them. Beatrice might get the odd report on his whereabouts if he does something completely stupid or outrageous.”
“Beatrice?” Sid asked in bewilderment.
“Brinkelle’s daughter. She’s in charge of their general family security.”
“Okay. I need to know where this Zebediah North is now, and I definitely need to know where he was on January eleventh. Call up this Beatrice and find out.”
“Of course,” Aldred said.
“In the meantime, we have a job to do,” Sid said to the office. “The imposter Adrian went into the St. James, and a body came out. Either it was him, or he killed a 2North. We know the Red Shield gang is involved to some degree through Ernie Reinert, which makes this a lot easier. The alien monster theory is now dead. Eva?”
“Yes, boss.”
“I need another zone simulation pulled together. Follow both of the Adrians from the moment they step through the gateway. I’m interested in everything the first one does on the way to the St. James, but don’t skimp on the second, either.”
“Understood.”
“The rest of you: I want every North in the St. James on Friday the eleventh brought back here for detailed questioning.” He stared directly at Aldred. “We’re going to make one last push to try and see if any of them is the imposter. Harvest as much background detail on them as possible, and go through every day of their life to see if they actually lived it. We’ll need full access to your family records.”
“I’ll see you get them,” Aldred said.
“And I’ll start by interviewing you.”
“I thought you might.”
*
It had rained most of the afternoon, thick heavy droplets sluicing down out of dark swirling clouds. The accompanying wind had driven the falling water almost horizontal, making life in Wukang just that little bit more depressing. All everyone wanted to do was skulk about in their tents avoiding work. Vance Elston wasn’t going to let that happen. With idle hands being the devil’s playground he firmly believed in work being the best way of keeping people focused properly. Nobody was going to have slack time to think about the MTJ accident. So the engineering teams were busy in their open-sided garage repairing the battered vehicle from components microfactured on site. More staff were preparing the second mobile biolab and testing the other vehicles for another sampling expedition starting tomorrow. AAV operatives were flying the Owls low, mapping out possible routes across the terrain to the northeast. Camm Montoto and Esther Coombes from the xenobiology team were overseeing the images, determining any potential sites of exceptional botanical interest amid the unending jungle.
The first expedition rolled back into camp midafternoon, its personnel depressed and exhausted. Again, Vance’s work ethic came to the fore, and he made them unpack and evaluate their vehicle status without pause.
Fortunately, by late afternoon, the clouds swept off to the east, clearing the sky. Residual water immediately started to steam away, boosting the humidity still further. But at least everyone could walk about without their rain gear on.
The evening meal was served as Sirius sank quickly toward the horizon and the rings began to shade down from icy silver to a more lambent glow across the southern sky. Vance was just about to leave the Qwik-Kabin to grab a bite to eat when the secure call came through from Ralph.
“We’ve had some interesting developments,” he began.
“Ernie Reinert?” Vance asked immediately.
“No. And that’s not going so good. He doesn’t know much, certainly not who murdered the North. But we have extracted some useful names from him, which should bring us a step closer to whoever ordered the bodydump.”
“Okay, so what have you got for me?”
“Detective Hurst found an unknown North coming through the gateway on the day of the murder. He went directly to the St. James singletown.”
Vance was so surprised that for a moment he couldn’t find anything to say. “Are you sure?” he asked, which was not quite a professional reaction, but …
“The unknown stole the identity of Adrian North to come through GE Border Directorate. He went to the singletown and vanished. So either he was murdered, or he committed the murder and impersonated his victim.”
“Good Lord.”
“Yeah. It really is starting to look like some kind of North family feud after all.”
Vance clenched his fist and tapped it gently against the top of the desk, beating out an irritated rhythm. “We had a bad accident here on Saturday.”
“Yes, it was on the news.”
“I’m not convinced it was an accident.” Even as he said it, he hated how desperate it sounded. This was an operation that was going down in flames, and he was the boss looking to throw blame around. But you had to be here to
know
something was wrong.
“Vance. Hurst and his team are doing a good job. They’re re-interviewing some Norths who might be the imposter. And Ernie has already confirmed the apartment he picked the body up from; we’ll have to give them that in a day or so. Forensics will rip the place apart.”