After the Red Rain (17 page)

Everything that lives matters.

And that, too, was what he’d said.

Everything that lives matters.

She watched with tears in her eyes as they shoved him down to his knees, more roughly than was necessary, then pushed him even more harshly onto his stomach. Shackled his wrists behind him.

“His ankles, too,” Markard said, pushing through to the center. “No chances.”

With his arms and legs bound, he was helpless.

Markard nodded to one of the DeeCees. The man raised his rifle, and Deedra bit a knuckle to keep from crying out as he brought the butt down on Rose’s head—hard enough to hear even where she crouched.

Rose lay there, completely still.

“Nice,” said Markard.

“Hey, Deedra?”

From behind her, Lissa’s voice had taken on a high, dreamlike quality, wavering and indistinct. Deedra turned around, and Lissa said, “I don’t think this is good,” in that same queer tone.

This
was the swath of blood spilled like a lake along her left flank.

“Told you you’d get me killed some… day…”

Before Deedra could react—before she could even blink—Lissa’s eyes rolled up in her head and she collapsed.

H
ERO COPS NAB LUDO MURDERER!
read the headlink. The story itself was more of the same, with no mention whatsoever of the local police and the DeeCees opening fire in the confines of L-Twelve. No mention of the paramedics who’d rushed to Lissa’s side—eventually—and then carted her off to MedFac without so much as a word to Deedra, who’d kept her alive until they’d arrived by pressing her rolled-up poncho against the wound.

She was tempted to edit at least one of the wikis to include this information, but she’d forgotten how. Editing the wikis seemed like a waste of time, so she hadn’t done it in forever. As kids, they’d all done it, logging in to change some important news story to include a definition of flatulence or a link to the entry for
penis
. It had been giggle-inducing funny back then, but the skill set just never seemed important enough to maintain.

It wouldn’t matter anyway. Others would reedit it however they wanted. In fact, maybe someone already had. Maybe the wikis originally got it right, and someone had changed it. And maybe the person who’d done so thought the adjustments made the story more true.

With so many truths flying around, who could tell what was
actually
true?

A boy named “Rose,”
the news feed went on,
is being held in Ludo SecFac until he can be transferred to City SecFac for processing and trial. He is accused of top murder and spying.

She did not remember going home; she could only remember leaving L-Twelve and then a blank of time and then her home.

Still in shock, she was in no condition to flee the Territory now. Especially since TI Markard had warned her against doing so. She paced her apartment. After the gunfire and Rose’s arrest and Lissa’s being hauled away on a stretcher, an early curfew had been imposed. Lissa might not live and Rose…

Rose was an accused murderer.

She weighed the idea, hefting it, testing its contours and density. Two questions—and only two—mattered at this point. One: Had Rose done it? And two: Did she care?

The answer to the first question was no. She knew it. Could she prove it? Not a chance. The vine-like tendrils at the murder scene. Plus, Rose had recovered the pendant, which Jaron had stolen. Too many coincidences piled one atop the other. At some point, all those coincidences got tamped down and fused by the pressure of logic into a nugget of pure evidence. Who else could have committed the crime?

Although, given Jaron’s belligerence and hatred of Rose, it was entirely possible—likely, even—that Rose had gone to Jaron’s apartment to ask for the pendant back, been attacked, and defended himself so effectively that Jaron ended up dead.

Leaning back to think, Deedra swept her hair over her shoulder, touching her scar as she did so. Its pebbly, rough texture felt unfamiliar. She realized she hadn’t been touching it as often as usual. Whole days sometimes went by now when she didn’t think about it or probe its hard, nigh-insensate topography.

The second question: Did she care?

It was just Jaron, after all. Jaron, who’d been a distant threat at
L-Twelve, then pretended to be a friend before showing his true colors. Who cared if he was dead?

So now
you
get to decide who lives and dies, Deedra? Is that it?

Everything that lives matters.

Rose was right: It was simple. And it was also so, so complicated.

She groaned and rubbed her hands down her face. She didn’t want to have these questions taking up space in her mind. When she’d met Rose, her world had changed in many ways, some small and subtle, some large. For the first time in her life, she’d felt wanted and needed, content. Nothing had changed in the world—the food was still too little and barely edible, the air still thick with alternating days of humidity and smog, the clouds still ever present, and the Territory still ugly. But for days and weeks, something had grown in her and near her, and for one magical night, she’d felt as though she’d brushed up against something pure and beautiful and true.

Now it was gone.

It was gone, and all that replaced it was an inchoate, unformed anger. She imagined Rose confined to a tiny cell in SecFac. That wouldn’t do. She pictured herself attacking SecFac, guns blazing, mowing down row after row of DeeCees.…

Instead of making her feel better, the image only made her feel worse. It was an impossibility atop an absurdity. She didn’t even know where to get a gun. She didn’t even know how to
fire
a gun.

She snarled and kicked out at her backpack, lying on the floor. It thunked too heavily.

Oh, wait…

The thing. The thing that Rose had given her. The book.

She rummaged under her poncho until she had it in her hands. It was heavy and solid and so old. Where had he found such a thing? And what was the point? Opening it, she was confronted with its running stream of text, broken up by the necessity of turning over each sheet
of paper to find more. It was crazy. The book looked to contain maybe a few hundred sheets of paper, each with a limited amount of text. So thick and heavy for so little information.

There was no way to jump from one bit of text to another. No way to check the meaning of a word. No way to change the size of the text.

Really: What was the point?

Still, Rose had had it. And he’d given it to her. And he was gone.

He must have had
some
reason for giving it to me. Right? He said he needed me to have it. Why?

She settled into bed with the book. One way or another, she would figure this out.

T
op Inspector Markard waited patiently in the Magistrate’s outer office. His career was about to skyrocket. Apprehending the murderer of the Magistrate’s only son? Doing so after a dramatic firefight? Markard would be promoted to superior inspector in no time, he knew.

He glanced around the outer office. Yes. Superior Inspector Markard. With all the perks that came with such a position. Bigger monthly rations. Maybe nothing as swank as the Magistrate’s digs, with its wall coverings and carpet. Carpet! Every place Markard had ever lived either had rough concrete floors or old, broken wood. Without shoes, you’d either tear up your feet or end up pincushioned by splinters. The idea of being able to take off his shoes in his own home seemed divine.

“Send him in!” a voice bellowed from within.

An assistant flicked a hand at the door without so much as a glance at Markard.

Markard wiped his palms on his pants and stood up. He’d never met the Magistrate before. He wondered if his tie was straight.

Cool air blasted him as he entered the inner office, and he shivered. Air-conditioning. It tasted chemical, but the coolness was welcome.
And—he realized—the aridity. The air did not hold the ever-present sag of moisture he’d become so used to.

“Close the damn door!” the Magistrate barked. He stood behind his desk, fidgeting with a stylus, tapping it without rhythm.

Markard shut the door. The inner office was carpeted, too, of course, with only three or four threadbare spots he could see. It must have cost a fortune. Tapestries hung from the walls, their ends only a little bit frayed. Only one of them was stained that Markard could notice.

A sofa sat against one wall, and a desk was at the far wall, positioned under the seal of Ludo Territory, a bas-relief of a dolphin in midleap. The same creature as in the brand on his neck. Markard couldn’t remember if dolphins were made up or if they were extinct, but either way, there weren’t any around, so it didn’t matter. The motto of the Territory—
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
—encircled the dolphin. Markard stood stock-still at the door, taking it all in. The desk was the size of the bed he shared with his wife. He’d heard of the splendor of the Magistrate, but never thought he’d witness it.

Hands clasped before him, he stood before the Magistrate’s desk as the man himself eased into his chair. Markard tried not to goggle as the chair actually
moved
, tilting slightly backward on its own. Amazing.

“You’re the one who caught the killer?”

It had been a group effort, really. Entire platoons of local peace militia and DeeCees had swarmed the Territory and quickly narrowed the possibilities to the facility in question. Ten teams of inspectors and DeeCees had worked in a blitz of interrogations, getting to the workers before they could collude and change stories. It had been pure dumb luck that Markard had been the one to get Rose.

But dumb luck didn’t get promotions. “Yes, Magistrate.”

“This goddamn place!” Ludo slapped a hand on his desk. “You have any idea what I do for you people, Markard? Any idea the crap I have
to put up with from the nationals, from the DeeCee bureaucracy? And someone murders
my
kid? That’s the thanks I get?”

“If it’s any consolation, Magistrate, the killer isn’t a local or a native. We believe he came in from Sendar. We’re still investigating.”

Ludo’s eyes narrowed until they were tiny gray-black beads set far back in his face. “Not Dalcord? Are you sure?”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose. But all our information indicates—”

“Well, damn. If it was Dalcord, this wouldn’t have been a complete waste. Would have given us pretext to go after them. Dalcord’s been agitating for years.”

“The boy wasn’t registered, so we can’t be sure exactly where he’s from. It could very well be Dalcord.” No harm in giving the Magistrate what he wanted.

Ludo smirked. “You want to—” He broke off and leaned forward, squinting. “What the hell is wrong with your eyes?”

“It’s a birth condition called hetero—”

The Magistrate waved as though fanning himself. “That’s all, Inspector. Good job catching this piece of puke.”

“Thank you, Magistrate.”

Markard stood still and silent as the Magistrate collected his tab—it had a perfectly shiny screen and only a couple of minor dings on the casing—and began flicking through it. After a moment, Ludo looked up.

“I said that’s all, Inspector. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Markard hesitated. “Yes, Magistrate. I apologize, Magistrate. I just… wanted to be sure… there was nothing else…?” He drifted off, hoping.

Max Ludo ground his teeth together and snorted. “If there was something else, I would have
said
something else and not… Oh, wait.” A sly expression came over his face, settling into the creases. “You
want
something, don’t you? I’ve been running this Territory for thirty years.
I’ve seen every hand stuck out in every way you can imagine. ‘Magistrate, I need this.’ ‘Magistrate, I need that.’” His voice paradoxically deepened as its agitation and volume rose. “‘Magistrate, button my shirt, tie my shoes, hold my dick while I piss.’ No one in this goddamn Territory can do anything for themselves. And they don’t
have
to do anything for themselves because I do it all for them, and all I ask in return is a little gratitude and a little loyalty. All I ask is that people do the little I ask of them. Why in the world should I reward you for doing your job?”

Markard’s face flamed.

“I apologize for any misunderstanding, Magistrate. I…”

“See that motto?” Ludo jabbed a finger at the crest behind him. “It’s Roman for ‘Who looks out for me?’ I do! I look out for all of you! But who looks out for
me
, Inspector?”

Max Ludo snorted blasts of air through his nose, his expression that of a man who believed himself capable of breathing fire, should he so wish. After several rough exhalations, he began strumming his strong fingers on the desk. “But maybe…”
Thrud-duh-dum
, went the fingers.
Thrud-duh-dum.
“Maybe
you
can look out for me.”

“Me?” Markard wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there.

“Yes. You. You’re the arresting officer, right? You have the datawork?”

Markard nodded. A few details to take care of and the DCS Citywide reps would come take Rose away. Crimes like murder were always tried at the City level, not the Territory.

“Maybe,” Ludo mused, still thrumming away, “maybe you don’t have a chance to get to that right away. Maybe you’re busy, and you take some time to process that information before the City boys can snap him up. Let him rot for a little while here. In my SecFac. I think that’s right. I think you were busy celebrating, weren’t you?”

“Celebrating?” Markard said.

“Your promotion, of course.”

“Yes. That could put off my finishing the processing by a couple of days.”

Max Ludo raised an eyebrow.

“Did I say
days
?” Markard shrugged. “I misspoke. I meant to say weeks. My apologies, Magistrate.”

Max Ludo’s smile widened into something that Markard would be able to accomplish only with a knife. “All is forgiven, Superior Inspector.”