“You can’t… you’re not serious.”
“Perfectly serious. This is eating you up; you don’t have to be my age to see that. And, Mark, I meant everything I said at the altar. I do love you, and if we stay here we’re going to get torn apart. So, this is what we have to do.”
“But what about your work? The stuff you do at Bitor-UU is real cutting edge.”
“So? There are tens of thousands who can do the same thing, hundreds of thousands, actually. And I don’t really need to be in the labs the whole time, I can work most of the systems over the unisphere. Then again, maybe it’s time for me to get a new job if we are going to live somewhere different.”
“Jesus.” Mark looked shocked, then he began to smile. “My God, do you know what they’ll say if I tell them I’m quitting? Burcombe will go crazy.”
“Let him. Who cares?”
“But what about money? We’ll never earn as much anywhere else, not doing what we do now.”
“Pay is relative. Augusta costs a lot more than most places. We’ll find a world where our jobs support this kind of lifestyle, if not a better one.”
He held her close. The expression on his face was the same kind of wonder as the first time they’d gone to bed together. “You’ll really emigrate with me?”
“Yes, Mark. You’re not just some section of my life, baby, you are my life. Who knows, maybe we’ll be the one in a hundred billion couples who actually stays married for all eternity.”
He grinned. “I like that idea.”
“You got any thoughts where you’d like to go? You’ve obviously been thinking about this for a long time.”
“Since I was about five.” His hands moved down to the gown’s belt, and gently pulled the bow open. “But we can talk about that in the morning.”
…
An hour after the case broke, Tarlo and Renne accompanied the Directorate duty forensics team to the Paris CST station, where all of them climbed onboard the express for Nzega. They routed via Orleans, the Big15 world for that sector of phase two space, and arrived at Fatu, Nzega’s capital, forty-one minutes later. The forensics team hired a van to carry their equipment, while Renne and Tarlo checked out a big BMW four-by-four Range Cruiser.
Nzega wasn’t a backwater world, but it had managed to sidestep the excesses of full technoindustrial development. The majority society was stable, civilized, and took a decently relaxed attitude to life and human foibles. Its main body of initial settlers were Polynesian and Latin Americans. They came because of the seas; half the planet’s surface was water. Nzega didn’t have any major continents, just hundreds of large islands and thousands of smaller ones. That gave them an awful lot of coastline.
The economic spin-off was the colossal number of resorts, hotels, and rental properties along the shores of the islands. Combined with the planet’s liberalism, it attracted a lot of middle-class kids looking for a break from the worlds with a faster pace of life.
Renne loaded their destination, Port Launay, into the BMW’s drive array, and settled back to enjoy the view. It was a seventeen-hour drive from Fatu along the Great Mantu Road, taking them over innumerable causeway bridges, and five ferry rides between the islands into the subtropical zone. Sometimes the road was enzyme-bonded concrete, sometimes not. There were times when it ran along the top of sheer cliffs, and others when it meandered through what seemed like endless salt marshes, while the rest was just a standard route through the string of coastal towns. After a while, both Investigators opaqued the windows and settled down to sleep while the vehicle rolled along.
Port Launay was simply a four-kilometer section of the urban strip that ran along the whole shore of Kailindri island, though “urban” was pushing the definition a bit. The single compacted stone road ran along two hundred meters inland from the sea through an unbroken forest of shaggy native trees, with small cul-de-sacs branching off where clusters of chalets and bungalows sheltered under the branches. Towns were identifiable only by the way shops and commercial buildings clumped together to serve residential neighborhoods.
When the BMW’s drive array indicated they’d reached their cul-de-sac, Renne switched to manual to steer the car along the last few hundred meters. The road wasn’t even broken stone anymore, just tire tracks of dusty sand in the dense yellow-blue queengrass. Three local police cars were blocking the way. Several rented cars were parked on the verges in front of them, with reporters arguing with police officers.
“How did they get here so goddamn fast?” Tarlo asked.
“Who knows,” Renne said. “They smell misery the way vultures smell carrion. You want to deal with the local police?”
“Sure.” Tarlo grinned, slipped his sports sunglasses on, and opened the door.
She watched him saunter over to the sergeant in charge. Tarlo was from Los Angeles, eighty-two years old. Not that he gave that impression in the flesh; nine years after his first rejuvenation he still looked as if he was barely out of his teens. His wealthy California family had contributed extensive germline sequencing, one facet of which restricted his natural aging process. They’d also gone for a traditional (or stereotyped—depending on your viewpoint) surfer-kid appearance: slim body, but tall and naturally toned, with lush blond hair and perfect teeth set on a firm square jaw. Tarlo clearly relished his heritage. Why he’d gone into law enforcement was something Renne never understood. “I like puzzles,” was the only explanation he’d ever offered. Personally, she felt he got slightly too much of a buzz out of the Directorate’s covert operations. The little boy who wanted to be a super secret agent when he grew up.
He ought to fit in just fine on Nzega. Which was why she was happy to let him talk to the police. Sometimes there was a lot of resentment within the local law enforcement agency when the Directorate turned up and took over.
She saw the forensics team’s van pull in behind the BMW just as Tarlo and the sergeant laughed together. One of the police cars was driven off the track it had been blocking, and Tarlo waved her through.
The beach cottage was another couple of hundred meters down the track. Tall trees with gray-blue leaves lined the track, providing a degree of privacy for the homes along the cul-de-sac. She caught glimpses of the single-story buildings, built mainly from wood or composite panels; one had been grown from drycoral. A black Merc had drawn up outside the cottage she wanted. Renne had a good idea who that had brought. She parked the BMW behind it, and climbed out into strong humidity and the strong smell of salt water. The trees provided reasonable shade from the fierce morning sunlight, but she still put her own sunglasses on.
“The Halgarths sent their own security team,” Tarlo said as he walked up beside her, holding his linen jacket over his shoulder. He nodded at the Merc. “Police said they arrived about forty minutes ago.”
“How do the police feel about us being here?”
He grinned his broad grin. “Pleased to hand the whole problem over to us. They’ll handle crowd control until Ms. Halgarth leaves.”
“Good.” She watched the forensics team van jolt its way along the track. “Do we know which house the Guardians operated out of?”
“Yep.” He pointed along the shore. “Two down. They obviously had good intel. Police have put a guard on it. The reporters don’t know about that yet.”
“Okay.” Renne straightened her shoulders, adjusted her light jacket. “Let’s get this over with. Put your jacket back on.”
“The boss isn’t here.”
“That’s not the point.”
With a great show of reluctance, Tarlo put his jacket back on, and pulled his tie up. “There’d better be air-conditioning,” he muttered as Renne told the forensics team to start with the other house.
They walked down the narrow front path to the beach cottage. It was a modest little building, made of wood that had been freshly painted lime-green, with a solar cell roof and semiorganic precipitator leaves hanging from the eves. A wide veranda faced the sea. Only the rear and sides of the property were fenced in with trees, giving the cottage a grand view out across the broad cove. A barbecue stood at the end of the veranda, with several chairs and a table on the grass beside it. Empty bottles of exotic cocktails, beer cans, and dirty plates occupied the table, glistening in the fast-evaporating dew.
One of the Halgarth security personnel was standing in front of the door, dressed in a simple navy-blue sweatshirt, and long beige shorts that came down over his knees. Renne tried not to smile when they walked up to him; his image was obviously something he felt strongly about. “Serious Crimes Directorate,” she said solemnly. “We’d like to interview Ms. Halgarth.”
“Sure thing,” he said. “Some identification, please?”
Renne’s e-butler sent an SCD certificate to his e-butler.
“Thank you,” the security man said. He opened the door for them.
The cottage wasn’t large. A narrow hall led to three bedrooms, a bathroom, a kitchen, and a living room, which took up half of the total floor space. The furniture was functional rather than ornate, a typical low-budget holiday rental.
“She’s a Halgarth, and she comes here for a vacation?” Tarlo said. “Even if she’s minor family she could stay someplace better.”
“That’s not the point. Didn’t you access the file? This is her first year at college, her first vacation with a bunch of friends. She’s free of the family for the first time in her life. Anyway, what’s wrong with this place?”
He winked. “No moon. No tides.” His voice dropped to a deliberately hoarse whisper. “No surf!”
Renne gave him a despairing look, and went into the living room. April Gallar Halgarth was sitting on the settee, looking as woebegone as if she’d just been told her parents had undergone complete bodyloss. Even dressed in baggy green jeans and a rumpled old russet T-shirt, she was quite beautiful. A tall twenty-year-old with smooth light ebony skin, thick wavy hair, and sweet features that belonged on an even younger face. Her hands cupped a mug of coffee that she wasn’t drinking. When she looked up at the two Investigators, her eyes were red and puffy, desperate for understanding.
Her three girlfriends were standing guard protectively around her. Marianna, Anjelia, and Laura, all from Queens University Belfast where they studied together. Two more Halgarth security personnel were also in the room, looking slightly lost. Their orders were to protect April from the media, and escort her home. The girl clearly wasn’t up to that much activity yet.
“Have you caught the bastards?” Marianna demanded when Renne and Tarlo identified themselves. She had a thick Irish accent.
“Not yet, no,” Tarlo said. “We’re just establishing the investigation.”