Judas Unchained

“I’m not threatening you, pal, I’m asking for your cooperation. So far I’ve been asking nicely.”

“What exactly are you asking for?” Lucius asked.

“This informant of yours. I want to speak to him now.”

“He doesn’t keep office hours, you know,” Marhol said. “It takes a while to set up a meeting.”

“It used to,” Gwyneth said. “Today, it becomes quick. We either tag his unisphere address with a location fix and send an armed arrest team in to wherever the bleep comes from, or we raid his home with even more firepower, or we meet up in the bar of his choice.”

“We can round up as many Stuhawks as we can find,” Jim Nwan suggested. “Shove them into neurolock interrogation, maybe a memory read, and extract Beard’s whereabouts that way.”

Tarlo nodded appreciatively. “I like that one. That’s got a high probability of success.”

“You can’t lift an entire fucking gang,” Marhol protested.

“Why not?” Tarlo inquired artlessly.

“Every other gang in the city would declare war on the police,” Lucius said. “Right now, with everyone all het up over the navy ships and Hell’s Gateway, we don’t need any more unrest.”

Gwyneth shrugged. “Not our problem.”

“Okay okay,” Marhol said grudgingly. “My guy, he likes to drink at the Illucid bar on Northgate.”

“Thank you.” Tarlo stood up. “Let’s go. I want to be talking to Robin Beard within twenty-four hours.”

***

Mellanie had rented a tiny apartment in a monolith forty-story block on Royal Avenue, not a kilometer from the Logrosan embankment. It was a lot darker than the one she’d left behind on Venice Beach; her one window looked away from the river and into the city, but the air-conditioning worked, which clinched the deal as far as she was concerned. The humidity in Tridelta was unbelievable.

As the sun went down she had the wall screen access the Michelangelo show while she got ready for the evening. He had Senators Valetta Halgarth and Oliver Tam in the studio, asking them what had happened to the attack on Hell’s Gateway. Even used to dealing with the expert evasiveness of professional politicians, Mellanie was impressed by the varied and inventive ways the senators didn’t answer the question.

She showered to rinse away the clamminess of a day spent out on Tridelta’s streets. Once she’d toweled down she put on a simple white cotton halter, over which she wore a sleeveless micro-sweater of fluffy white wool in a loose cobweb weave that was only slightly bigger than the halter so she could show off lean lines of abdominal muscle and the ruby-spark stud in her navel. She wriggled into a white miniskirt; no tights—she’d spent half an hour massaging oil into her legs, giving her skin an arresting sheen. None of the clothes had a designer label; there wasn’t even a copy of anything fashionable, which was about all Tridelta’s stores sold in their voracious quest for the tourist credit tattoo. All she had bought in town were some long costume jewelry necklaces of wooden beads and lavender-tinted crystalline shells that she looped around her neck.

“But why would the navy embargo any information on the Hell’s Gateway strike?” Michelangelo asked reasonably. “I’m sure the Prime aliens know if we’ve attacked them or not. Surely the only logical conclusion is that our ships have failed and the Executive is trying to avoid a panic.”

Mellanie half turned for the answer.

“Our intelligence-gathering capability must remain veiled for obvious reasons,” Oliver Tam replied smoothly. “I’m sure we do have the ability to see if their wormholes at the Lost23 are open or not. If so, that gives us a distinct military advantage. The navy cannot be expected to expose our assets simply to make the media happy. We will all know beyond any doubt just as soon as the starships fly into communications range. Is it possible, Michelangelo, that you simply cannot stand not knowing? Has the media become too arrogant in its assumption that all secrets must be violated to satisfy your lust for ratings, no matter what cost to us as a species?”

“Was that a joke?” Michelangelo asked; he seemed mortally offended by the insult. Anger in someone so large and powerful was imposing. Oliver Tam did his best to show no fear.

Mellanie grinned at the ludicrous posturing back in the studio, and checked the mirror. Her hair was now raven-black, and alive with short waves that made it frizz out around her head. She pinned it back on both sides with cheap orange and yellow cloth bands. After some thought she applied the darkest purple lipstick she could find. Thanks to a dermal genoprotein her face was now covered in freckles; they made her look so cutesy she wanted to hurl. Instead she threw her arms around her head, and blew herself a flouncy kiss.

Perfect persona.