Sleeping Fleshless

________________________

Bellingham rapped briefly on the window of the velo, automatically looking round for anyone showing undue interest in them as she did so, and then opened the door and bent down to talk to the occupant. We’ve got it, she said briefly. It took a bit of time, but we got it. We’re going up now.

Can I come? Duke asked.

Bellingham hesitated. Duke was a fellow Security officer, but she was a Security officer from Stead 107 and had no authority in Stead One. On the other hand, this whole exercise was being performed purely for her benefit. As long as you promise not to touch anything. An observer, nothing more.

Duke promptly crossed her heart. Promise.

Bellingham straightened up and slid the door shut, so Duke hastily scrambled out her side and hurried after Bellingham as she re-crossed the road. It was stead-night, but the street lights were on low to save money, and the place was unusually deserted. The only movement was that of the uniformed police as they quietly homed in on the building from their scattered velos as they got the word to move in.

They were in one of the poorer parts of the stead, the edge of an industrial extension that had failed to flourish, a place where the litter lay uncollected in the gutter and the unwatered flowerbeds were full of dead plants. The building they were heading for still clung to the dreams of its architect, with newly painted doors and panels, and two rows of brightly glowing sentinel lights leading up from the road.

Up close, the security measures were clearer: shutters on the lower windows, a complicated entry system and even a concierge on duty. Duke hung back at the bottom of the ramp, under the one tree still surviving in the whole street while Bellingham, backed up by her crowd of uniforms, politely negotiated their entry into the building. The old woman seemed inclined to prove she was earning her pay by being obstreperous, but Bellingham out-lasted her by remaining unfailingly even-tempered despite being tired, under pressure and several hours into unpaid overtime.

When the woman finally deigned to let them into the building, Bellingham checked the apartment number on the warrant and asked to be shown up to Sam Neville’s apartment on the third floor. Duke tramped up the narrow stairs alongside Bellingham, taking note of the signs of apparent wealth despite the locality. The corridors were without graffiti or scattered toys and discarded rubbish, and had framed artwork on the walls, occasional side tables and still-new-smelling stone-coloured matting. The walls were thick enough to block out any sounds of life in the apartments, and the only noise was that of their passing.

The door to Neville’s apartment matched the building’s theme of fancy black and gold chinoiserie, and had a good-quality lock to it that had Bellingham frowning. She was still searching through her master-cards for one that would work on it when the old woman produced her own master key with a dismissive sniff. She unlocked the door and seemed inclined to stay and watch the action, but Bellingham firmly turned her aside and sent her away.

After obtaining her goal after so much hard work, Duke was eager to get inside, and impatiently hurried forward past her friend to open the inner door into the apartment proper, fumbling briefly in the darkness for the light pad. She halted, blinking, as soon as the lights flooded the room. The place stretched the full width of the building, and swallowed up at least three of the original apartments, and yet its size was still not as impressive as its decor. For a moment Duke thought the place was deserted and the place bare, and then realised the effect was purely intentional.

Wow, Bellingham said at her shoulder, similarly jolted. The massive room had cream-coloured walls, bleached bare wooden floorboards, plain pale yellow blinds over the towering full-length windows in the outer walls, and designer bentwood furniture arranged artistically in the centre of the emptiness. There were no pictures on the walls, no rugs, no cushions, no plants, just four chairs, a low table and two almost empty wall units. The place had the air of an understated showroom or some art-gallery conceit, not a lived-in home.

Duke was not inclined to admire the startling interior design. This must have cost a fair pinch, she commented.

Hell, rent out here’s so low they just about pay you to live here, Bellingham answered. Anyway, the Institute pays through the nose. She turned back to chivvy up her companions, slowly drifting in past them, all looking round with the same astonishment. Come on, get a move on! You know what you’ve got to do.

As the police began to spread out, Duke went to explore the rest of the apartment before she got in their way. It was all decorated in a very similar style, with the same clearly expensive furniture, the same absolute lack of any clutter, and the same obsessive tidiness. Clothes were hidden away in fitted cupboards, books were in neat lines on shelf-units faced with doors, and food and utensils were carefully concealed within bleachwood units. There were no newsmags waiting to be thrown out, no plate left out by the sink, no unfinished cup of coffee awaiting collection by the bed.

Bellingham breezed past her as she stood staring in suspicious disbelief at the unnaturally tidy kitchen, all blonde wood and blinding chrome, with bare work surfaces and empty draining boards. "This ain’t going to take long," Bellingham said, sounding the happiest she had been all day, and Duke could only nod in agreement. They had the authority to take the whole place apart in their search, and had come with the whole paraphernalia usually required when searching through the collected detritus of a private house, but the uniforms in the apartment had a definite embarrassed air at their over-equipped state. This was like no home any of them had ever been in.

They had got the search warrant on the flimsy grounds that a known crime-lord called Rich Fuller had once visited this address. It had been a throwaway line on a surveillance log, and they had no idea how long he had been present, nor if he had even seen Sam Neville, the man who lived there, nor if he had tried to employ Neville in a private capacity. Duke thought it was highly unlikely that he had done so, but that did not matter one way or the other. It had been enough, with a little backroom pressure and the calling in of a favour or two, to get a compliant magistrate to sign off on a search warrant that would get them through the door. After that they were on an unstated, and highly illegal, fishing expedition.

Duke went through to the study to watch them empty out the drawers of the large desk sitting in the middle of the floor, but the contents were frankly unimpressive. She knew Neville would have his nexus and comp with him, but she had expected plenty of the paperwork that everyone accumulated, which she had wanted to search in the slightly desperate hope that there would have been something amongst it that they could use against him. She could tell the few flimsy files they found were not going to yield anything useful, and, depressed, she left the Stead One police to it. She returned to the main room, deserted once more, and sat down in one of the elegant chairs, and waited.

She was still there three hours later when Bellingham came looking for her. She sat with her coat still folded round her, staring unseeing at the bare wall, and Bellingham sighed because she had no good news to tell her, and she knew this had been Duke’s last chance to stop Neville.

We’re nearly done, Bellingham said, cautiously sitting down in one of the other - surprisingly comfortable - bentwood chairs that bobbed and dipped gently under her weight. We’re not going to take anything away. There’s no point. We’ve had time and enough to look through everything. Duke looked across to her. There’s not a thing here, Bellingham said. Not even a government issue pencil.

There’s nothing here, Duke echoed. "He doesn’t live here. He’s got somewhere else. He has to have somewhere else."

If he has, then you’ve got him, ’cos this is down in all the paperwork as his one and only address, Bellingham said. Anywhere else would be an illegal residence. But the concierge says he lives here, other than the weeks when he’s off on assignments.

Just because he tells her he’s on assignment, doesn’t mean he really is, Duke said. "Look at this place. No-one lives here."

Bellingham shrugged. He’s allergic to house dust. He likes a spartan lifestyle. I don’t know, Keeley, but this place is definitely lived in. We have absolutely no evidence to suggest he lives anywhere else.

Has he got a lover?

No.

Family?

None living in One. A father out on one of the advance planting stations.

He’s got somewhere else, Duke insisted.

There’s no way you’ll ever find it - if it exists - in time. You know that, don’t you? Bellingham replied. And if you did find it, you really think you’ll find anything? I think this place pretty conclusively proves he’s not a hoarder. Duke brooded. I’m sorry, Bellingham added. I know how much you want him. I just can’t deliver.

Duke stirred herself. It’s not your fault. You’re done all I’ve asked, and more. I’ll just have to find some other way to stop him.

That’s not going to be easy.

She turned to face her friend again. No, it’s really not.

It was always a long shot, Bellingham said in consolation.

It had proved impossible to dig up any dirt on Neville. The last minute, almost missed, reference to Rich Fuller had seemed so miraculous Duke realised she had subconsciously expected it to be the breakthrough they had needed. Damn, Duke said with feeling. Damn, damn, damn.

If he’s not a criminal, he’s not a criminal, Bellingham said. The raid, she knew, had been part of some power-play out in Stead 107. She had no knowledge and even less interest in the politics, while she had thought the pretext for the search flimsy, and did not like persecuting men innocent in the eyes of the law without good cause. She was doing this purely as a favour to Duke, and had no personal stake in the outcome. Come on, she said. It’s time we were out of here.

Chapter 2

________________________

Duke reached the railport late, due to an old man wanting to debate just how illegal it was to remove a bag of Krunchee biscuits from a Zero-to-Zero all-night store right in front of her eyes. She’d turned the case over to the first uniform who’d turned up, an innocent newblood just days out of probation, and had fled, turning up only seconds after the first of the passengers coming off the rail had passed through immigration. An Express Tourbus had pulled in minutes after the National Air Rail had arrived, and the two groups merged in the hall, a flood tide of business-folk, tourists and visiting families washing up against the lines of those who had come to meet them. She stopped on the balcony walkway and looked down anxiously, trying to pick out faces from the crowd. They were all there, in all their finery; young, old, tourist and barefoot, merchants and commission-men, smugglers and thieves, newly-weds and lovers, decked out in all the colours given by God, with their bags and their cases, comps and rucksacks, squealing children and yapping dogs.

She was still trying to locate - and study unobserved - the unwelcome guests she had come to meet when a slight man came up to lean on the parapet beside her. Dressed in plain overalls, he looked vaguely like janitorial or maintenance staff, and had an almost instantly forgettable face.

Morning, he said, looking over the crowded hall below them with an automatically restless eye.

Morning, sir, Duke replied, smiling. The man was Tatin Obo, Head of Security at the railport, and highly efficient at it, too.

Looking for anyone special?

Just Commissioner Cirolli and his guests. I’m supposed to be with them, she said. Obo nodded, but did not start looking for Cirolli; he had already seen the stead’s security chief, and it was highly likely he was up on the walkway doing exactly what Duke was doing: spying. Duke realised that Cirolli had not told Obo about the incomers, but was hardly surprised since the two men were renowned for their mutual dislike of one another, a dislike exacerbated by widely differing policing styles.

They’re from the Counter Corruption Unit, she explained. Obo was likely to get dragged into the investigation soon enough, anyway. He nodded towards the information board, so she looked over and spotted the Commissioner standing talking to two people, a tall woman in uniform and a man with a great mane of blonde hair, wearing a long brown coat. She recognised the man from the file pictures, of course, but there was a rather morbid interest in seeing him in the flesh.

Who are they after? Obo asked.

They say it’s just a standard visit, in the light of what’s happening on Stead 97.

But?

But Commissioner Cirolli thinks they’re after Commander Barratt.

So?

It’s no great secret that Barratt thinks One is an infernal nest of interfering bureaucrats.

Sort of, she has sympathy for 97’s position, but not the way they went about it?

Yup.

Obo considered, but Duke knew he was trying to work out why Cirolli was troubled by it. The C.C.U. got everywhere, but Barratt hadn’t got to be Stead Commander without enough political allies to protect her interests when necessary.

He looked at her sideways without saying anything.

The one in civilians is a psi, she said.

Ah, Obo replied, significantly. It was difficult, but possible, to hide your political allegiances from the C.C.U.; impossible to hide them from a psi.

Cirolli looked at his watch, and began to make stiffly apologetic gestures, and Duke knew she was going to get a private dressing-down from him later for not arriving on time and leaving him to handle their guests. Cirolli still thought she had failed in One, so she knew he wasn’t going to want to listen to any excuses.

You’d better go, Obo said.

Yeah, she agreed without enthusiasm, tapping the balustrade and then pushing herself away. She was surprised just how nervous she was about this meeting. She trotted down the busy side stairs, stepping aside for the people coming up, and then strode across the mock-marble hall to where Cirolli stood.

I’m sorry, sir, she said, coming up to the trio. I had to deal with an incident.

At least you’re here now, Cirolli said with more than a hint of sarcasm. He turned back to his guests. This is Detective-Sergeant Duke, who will be your Liaison Officer during your stay in 107. Sergeant, this is Inspector Morgan and Mr Neville.

Duke shook hands with the Inspector and nodded curtly to the civilian. Morgan was a woman in her late forties, with undisguised greying hair cut into a harsh crop and deep frown lines on her face, making Duke wonder if the intimidating image had come after Morgan had joined C.C.U. or whether C.C.U. recruited people with a suitable presence in the first place. Duke had little interest in Morgan, as her job made her untouchable, but knew she was going to have to treat her with great care over the following days. The civilian favoured a sharp suit, dark glasses and gloves and continually looked round as if he were bored by his present company. Despite her best intentions she could not stop herself wondering if, in a different life, she would have already known him. Would she have met him many times before? Would she have been on first name terms with him? Would this have been a very different sort of greeting?

I’ll leave you in her capable hands then, Cirolli said. If you need me for anything, Sergeant Duke can get hold of me. He nodded at Duke and backed away to the railport’s Security office, safely out of the way of visiting C.C.U. agents.

Morgan looked back to Duke with disfavour. He’s already gone through all the welcoming bit, so you can skip that, she said, dryly ironic. As well as all the ‘we’ll do all we can to help you’ spiel.

Duke had been warned about C.C.U.’s love of sarcasm. Which leaves me to escort you to your hotel, ma’am, she replied.

I wish you would, Morgan said. "It was a long journey. The heating was faulty, the food was inedible and the turbulence was bad. I do hope this hotel is better than the usual backstreet crock-houses we usually get dumped in when in the minor steads."

It’s a government house, ma’am, Duke said, and Morgan rolled her eyes.

The hotel was right across the stead, close to the Security H.Q. As there were the three of them, two with luggage, Duke could easily have authorised a velo for them, but as with all visitors from Stead One, she made a point of taking them on the M.T. instead to make the point that things were done differently out in the provinces. They took the zoom on the Outer East Quick, the Inspector’s uniform ensuring there was a wide isolation zone around them, and while the civilian moved away to stare out at the graffiti’d walls of the Quick, Duke tried to make stilted conversation with the taciturn Morgan. The walk from the zoom stop to the front door of the Golden Tulip Hotel, almost ten minutes in all, was completed in deepening silence.

The hotel was set near the corner of the Golden Piazza, with the line of the Quick immediately behind it, and a cut-price damaged goods shop opposite, but it was well-run and well cared for, and even the fussy Morgan could find nothing to complain about. Duke booked them in at the desk, filling in all the forms while she chatted with familiar ease with the clerk, and then took them up personally to show them their rooms, luggage porter in tow.

Morgan knew how such government houses worked - the higher up the building your room was, the more important you were - and would have been impressed by their large top-floor suite could she not guess that there were very few ranking officials visiting the frontier stead just at that moment to take precedence over them. The suite was just Security’s usual clumsy attempt at fawning, and Morgan had long grown impervious to such minor forms of bribery.

Duke showed Morgan through the rooms while ignoring the civilian, who soon wandered off by himself. The suite was spacious, decorated in mixed neutral shades, with a dining table in one corner and deep-backed sofas arranged in front of a discreet vid-screen in the centre. It had been decorated with fresh-cut floral displays on small side tables and a selection of expensive limited circulation mags laid out on the sideboard. Morgan did not declare the suite acceptable until she had unobtrusively checked with Neville and received a half-hearted shrug of approval. Neville was a clairsentient, who read objects or people through physical touch, but like all psis he could also feel the emotional colour of his surroundings and Morgan had discovered the hard way there were many, many rooms that were unacceptable to him.

Duke discussed their itinerary for the next day, repeating much of what Cirolli had already said in the way of blatant lies promising Morgan all the help she could possibly need in her investigation. She produced a map to show exactly where the Security building was, promised their clearance badges would be ready by the morning, arranged a rendezvous with them at 0900, and then left them as soon as she decently could. Morgan did nothing to detain her.

Morgan re-inspected the two bedrooms leading off the central room, chose the one she preferred, and started to unpack. Neville checked his own room leisurely, looking over the top of his glasses to do so, but in all his ramblings he was careful not to touch anything. He left his still-full suitcase on the bed and returned to the main room to stare out of the window to the piazza below until Morgan had finished. It was her ritual, in every strange room, to put all her belongings in their correct places before doing anything else, and Neville had learnt that it was pointless talking to her before she had her uniforms hanging neatly in the closet, her boots lined up under the bed, and the picture of her husband and children set up on the bedside cabinet.

Done, Morgan called through eventually, knowing he was waiting, and Neville smiled. It had taken a long time, and hard effort on both sides, but in the past few months they had begun to know each other as partners should.

I was only wondering why they gave us a Liaison Officer who is so clearly uneasy around psis, he said, turning away from the window.

Tut, tut, Sam. You know you shouldn’t look into people’s minds without telling them, Morgan reprimanded ironically.

I don’t need to look into her mind, Neville replied. She was radiating her emotions.

You should be used to your effect on people by now, Morgan said, coming into the room and swinging her heavy attaché case onto the circular table.

It wasn’t nervousness, Neville said, slipping his glasses up and pinching the bridge of his nose. It was intense unease.

I must admit I agree with you, Morgan replied. She could hardly bring herself to look at you. She unlocked the case and lifted out a pile of paper files with both hands. They slid across the table in an untidy fan, revealing the names of all the high officials of Stead 107 - Barratt, Obo, Cirolli, Rhys, Singh, and more, every one of whom would have to be investigated. She then pulled out the restricted access C.C.U. comp and set it up and running. Have a look for yourself, she offered.

Neville pulled a chair round to sit in front of the propped-up screen, and pulled off a glove to press the ident button before asking for access to 107’s Security files. As they were C.C.U. they could look in whatever files they liked, with or without permission, and within three minutes he had Duke’s entire file scrolling up the screen before him. Morgan sat down opposite him and began to pull the ragged paper files into order, separating them into two neat piles.

We’re just here to check the general loyalty of 107 Command, Morgan said. Nothing heavy. It should be a nice change for you after the raz of 97.

Hmm.

Morgan glanced at Neville, but he was still intent on reading the tight lines of information on the screen. Morgan had come all the way from One, while Neville had only joined the rail at the 97 stop-over, and since he had promptly slept for the rest of the journey she had not yet had the chance to speak to him, and there were some delicate matters still to talk about.

It’s Kinny’s birthday next week, and I want to be back by the 15th at the latest, she continued, making sure all the corners of the files in her pile were lined up correctly. So don’t go finding any of your conspiracies.

They find me, he corrected absently.

She studied his face carefully, and then opened the top file. You can have a quick look through the files this evening and see if you’ve got any queries.

Who’s Commander here?

Jo Barratt.

Head of Council?

Ross Cotcher.

Cirolli came here from Stead 91, Neville said, peering at the comp. Brought Duke after him. She was one of only three he asked to go with him.

And?

And Marquez came from Stead 91.

Marquez is dead.

He is now.

Neville frowned at the screen, and kept jabbing the arrow for the next page. Morgan alternated between reading her own report and watching Neville across the table.

Barratt’s appointment was supported by Karew, wasn’t it? he commented, still reading.

I suppose so, Morgan replied.

Neville paused with his finger on the quit button, wondering if he should say more, but not quite daring to risk it.

You’ll have to ask Cirolli to change the Liaison Officer, he said, touching the button and closing down the screen.

Yeah?

Keeley Lesley Duke had a non-identical twin sister who was tested for psi-abilities as a teenager, Neville explained. Lacey Rosie. Three days after she returned from the Institute she killed herself .... There is no point in me even trying to work with Sergeant Duke.

First thing tomorrow, Morgan promised.

Thank you.

Hey, what are partners for? Morgan replied generously, and Neville grinned despite himself. He knew that she understood how to manipulate him, but every time she used the word ‘partner’ unprompted he felt like he had finally made it. Finally belonged.

He pushed the comp aside and pulled the second pile of files towards him. These were the infamous paper files of C.C.U., single-copied pages full of the sort of information no-one dared put into electronic files, documents that seemed to inspire more fear than any number of damning comp files. He felt the number of them and their thickness and sighed unintentionally. Morgan had had time to go over all of them, and was merely refreshing her memory or checking minor points: he had to go through them all in detail.

Morgan felt a stirring of pity for his tiredness, knowing how hard he was likely to have worked on 97. I’ll order some coffee, shall I? she said.

Chapter 3

________________________

Cirolli met Barratt at the bar of the Senate’s restaurant, where politicians and their supporters could eat good quality food at highly subsidised prices secure in the knowledge they were working hard to protect the rights of the underprivileged. Barratt was still in uniform and still on duty, waiting patiently for a dining partner who wanted to worm yet more trade concessions from her, while Cirolli had just happened to drop in for an innocent drink before going home for the evening.

I’ve heard they’ve arrived, Barratt said, standing next to Cirolli as she tried to catch the barman’s attention.

Safe and sound, Cirolli agreed.

Barratt glanced round the room. It was decorated in a pompous, mock-antique style, trumpeting its own importance as if mirroring the people who used it, and she personally hated it, but she knew she was going to miss it like hell when she could no longer walk through its doors.

So what’s the timetable? she asked, and then ordered her drink as the barman came over to her part of the bar. She slipped onto the stool next to Cirolli’s while she waited for her wine.

They’ll spend a few days going through some of the rest of us, for effect. Then they’ll reach you.

And it’s good-bye Stead 107, and good-bye any chance of a career.

We’re not beat yet, Cirolli replied.

Barratt put her hand up to his arm. Thanks for the support, she said. She waited until the barman had brought her drink and had moved away out of earshot. I really thought I was getting somewhere, you know, she said with her characteristic honesty. I know the last two years here have hardly been easy for anyone, and I know I’ve made some stupid mistakes, but everything seemed to be coming together at last. I thought we were going to make it.

Don’t give up yet, Commander.

"What’s left to fight? I think the frontier steads should have more autonomy; I have sympathy for Geldi’s aims even if not for the way she went about it; I’m convinced most of Stead One’s politicians are self-serving wrackheads, and I think the C.C.U. and its pet psis have a highly dangerous degree of unregulated power. None of that is ever going to put me high on the loyalty lists," Barratt reasoned.

There’s more than - Cirolli began, but was stopped short by Barratt touching his arm in warning.

And I still think the Angels have a good chance for the Cup this year, she said lightly. Yono’s really pulled them up this last quarter.

Cirolli did not blink at the change of subject and replied equally smoothly: Don’t be tricked into thinking the Rangers are down, ma’am. I’ve seen them come back from worse positions.

I’m sorry I’m late, Commander Barratt, the new arrival said as he drew close. It was Andrew Bromley, the man Barratt was dining with, looking smug and self-satisfied like all too many of the other occupants of the bar.

I’m sure I’m early rather than you late, Barratt replied graciously, slipping off the stool. I’ll see you tomorrow, Commissioner, she said to Cirolli, nodding slightly, and led Bromley off to their table.

Cirolli watched their progress across the room using the florid gilt mirror behind the bar. Barratt might be all too aware of the threat facing her, but it was clear she would be damned before she showed it publicly, and appeared relaxed and cheerful. He watched them surreptitiously until Bromley covered Barratt’s hand on the table with his own, and then he tossed back the rest of his drink and stalked away.

Chapter 4

________________________

After seeing the C.C.U. people to their hotel, Duke had returned to H.Q. and the detectives’ office, expecting Cirolli to be waiting there to shout at her. Cirolli, however, was ‘out’, so she checked on her cluttered desk for any urgent messages and glanced at the textboard on the wall to see if any interesting cases had come in during her absence. Her usual partner, Hansen, pushed her way in through the swing doors and slowly ambled across to her, a massive cheese sandwich in one hand. She was seven months pregnant and eating for about three.

Evening, she said through a mouthful of bread. The Thought Police arrived?

Safely.

Shame. She licked her fingers clean of tomato pips and picked up the stylus from the tray and started to write on the textboard. We’ve got a body, she said. A John D down in Grant-town, by the Oasis.

Oh yes? Duke said, surprised. Murders were rare in the stead and most could be classified as domestics or fallings-out between shadow-economy partners. She considered the location. Drugs?

It’s just come in, Hansen said. No-one’s saying yet.

Who’s got it?

Lafleur.

Lafleur? she repeated. Zeus.

You can’t have everything, Hansen said sympathetically.

They don’t want it solved, or something?

Hansen grinned but said nothing. When Cirolli had first arrived in 107 he had set about clearing