Nemesis

The Sentine had dispensation and so were not required to land at a prescribed platform like civilian traffic. Instead, the pilot moved smartly between a massive pair of half-inflated cargo ballutes to touch down on a patch of ferrocrete scarcely the width of the flyer. Yosef and the pair of jagers were barely off the drop-ramp before the downwash from the rotor became a brief hurricane and the coleopter spun away, back up into the blue. Yosef shielded his eyes from the dust and scattered leaves the departure kicked up, watching it go.

He reached inside his coat for his warrant rod on its chain, and drew out the slim silver shaft to hang free and visible around his neck. He ran his thumb absently down the length of it, over the etching and the gold contact inlays that indicated his rank of reeve, and surveyed the area. Unlike the jagers, who only wore a brass badge on street duty or patrol, the reeve’s rod showed his status as an investigating officer.

The men from the flyer had joined a group of other uniforms who were carefully plotting out a search pattern for the surrounding area. Behind them, Yosef saw an automated barrier mechanical ponderously drawing a thick cable lined with warning flags around the edge of the nearest staging area.

A familiar face caught his eye. ‘Sir!’ Skelta was tall and thin of aspect, with a bearing to him that some of the other members of the Sentine unkindly equated to a rodent. The jager came quickly over to his side, ducking slightly even though the coleopter was long gone. Skelta blinked, looking serious and pale. ‘Sir,’ he repeated. The young man had ideas about being promoted beyond street duty to the Sentine’s next tier of investigatory operations, and so he was always attempting to present a sober and thoughtful aspect whenever he was in his superior’s company; but Yosef didn’t have the heart to tell the man he was just a little too dull-witted to make the grade. He wasn’t a bad sort, but sometimes he exhibited the kind of ignorance that made Sabrat’s palms itch.

‘Jager,’ he said with a nod. ‘What do you have for me?’

A shadow passed over Skelta’s face, something that went beyond his usual reticent manner, and Yosef caught it. The reeve had come here expecting to find a crime of usual note, but Skelta’s fractional expression gave him pause; and for the first time that morning, he wondered what he had walked into.

‘It’s, uh…’ The jager trailed off and swallowed hard, his gaze losing focus for a moment as he thought about something else. ‘You should probably see for yourself, sir.’

‘All right. Show me.’

Skelta led him through the ordered ranks of wooden cargo capsules, each one an octagonal block the size of a small groundcar. The smell of matured estufagemi wine was everywhere here, soaked into the massive crates, even bled into the stone flags of the flight apron. The warm, comforting scent seemed cloying and overly strong today, however, almost as if it were struggling to mask the perfume of something far less pleasant.

Close by, he heard the quick barks of dogs, and then a man’s angry shout followed by snarls and yelps. ‘Dockside strays,’ offered the jager. ‘Attracted by the stink, sir. Been kicking them away since before sun-up.’ The thought seemed to disagree with the young man and he changed the subject. ‘We think we have an identity for the victim. Documents found near the scene, papers and the like. Name was Jaared Norte. A lighter drivesman.’

‘You think,’ echoed Yosef. ‘You’re not sure?’

Skelta held up the barrier line for the reeve to step under, and they walked on, into the crime scene proper. ‘Haven’t been able to make a positive match yet, sir,’ he went on. ‘Clinicians are on the way to check for dentition and blood-trace.’ The jager coughed, self-consciously. ‘He… doesn’t have a face, sir. And we found some loose teeth… But we’re not sure they were, uh, his.’

Yosef took that in without comment. ‘Go on.’

‘Norte’s foreman has been interviewed. Apparently, Norte clocked off at the usual time last night, heading home to his wife and son. He never arrived.’

‘The wife report it, did she?’

Skelta shook his head. ‘No, sir. They had some trouble, apparently. Their marriage contract was a few months from expiration, and it was causing friction. She probably thought he was out drinking up his pay.’

‘This from the foreman?’

The jager nodded. ‘Sent a mobile to their house to confirm his take on things. Waiting on a word.’

‘Was Norte drunk when he was killed?’

This time, Skelta couldn’t stop himself from shuddering. ‘For his sake, I hope so. Would have been a blessing for the poor bastard.’