‘If anyone can,’ Solace confirmed. ‘There is literally no greater expert on Originator relics outside the Hegemony. And I don’t think we want to head that way, right?’
15.
Havaer
The relationship between Tarekuma and the wider Council of Human Interests was a complicated one. And from Havaer Mundy’s point of view, it was entirely unsatisfactory. Officially, the system was in the heart of the Colonies; it even had a seat on the Council. In practice it was what was called a ‘Ward Borough,’ along with perhaps a score of other worlds. Tiny outposts, science stations, terraforming operations or planets that had no interest in engaging with Hugh but needed to be looked after anyway. Then there were worlds like Tarekuma where there were plenty of people but no legitimate authority. Every year, some councillor or other said that Hugh should move in on Tarekuma, root out the gangs, lift the standard of living. There would be a study, the appalling cost of the operation would be duly reported, and the project would end up shelved until next time – when those same figures could be updated and represented.
Havaer knew full well that people in his line of work had a use for places like Tarekuma. He himself had arranged clandestine meetings there, received covert information via its informants and hired operatives who wouldn’t ever appear on the books. Some of his colleagues were completely at ease with that side of the job. He didn’t judge them, nor did it escape his notice that several had ended up kicked out of the service after becoming a little too . . . personally involved. That was the problem with associating with criminals. It led to Newtonian espionage. Each action produced an equal and opposite reaction and you couldn’t use without being used in turn.
Tarekuma was the worst den of villainy that Hugh oversaw. Its position at a nexus of Throughways had brought many sinners together inside one atmosphere, and Havaer was bleakly aware that some of their dirty money stuck to the hands of high-up people in Hugh. Another reason it would never see reform.
There was a Hugh station in orbit hosting a reasonably equipped Mordant House sub-office. The department’s formal name – the Intervention Board – was a bit of a joke in these parts. Nobody was intervening on Tarekuma. Heading up the Tarekuma office required someone who was simultaneously unambitious and grimly devoted to the service. Such was Albas Solier, who came to meet Havaer at the dock.
‘You’re after Vulture God and the Oumaru?’ she said, without even a hello or a formal introduction: a broad, very dark woman ten years Havaer’s senior at least.
‘You’ve got them?’ Havaer guessed that was too good to be true.
‘They’ve been through here. Some fireworks, some raised eyebrows, some very angry people down below. Interesting friends you’ve got, Agent Mundy.’
‘You’ve a dossier?’
‘I’ve all the rumour and fiction you could wish. As to what we actually know, well, step into my office.’
Albas grew plants for a hobby, or at least Havaer assumed the spiky, faceted things were plants. Decorative enough, so long as you didn’t end up cutting yourself on them. He drew up a stool as she misted them with something that smelled faintly of burning hair. Nothing about Tarekuma was nice.
An aide came in with a slate: the promised dossier. He opened it up idly; there was a timeline, a cache of contacts, incident reports and a longer and woollier file of perhaps and maybe.
‘Let me summarize what we do know,’ Albas said, turning from her plants. ‘The Oumaru and Vulture God turned up in-system a couple of days ago, far enough out that we almost missed them. A Partheni packet ship went after them the moment they appeared, as did a marauder-type vessel from one of the local docks. They fought and the Partheni won out – meaning the girls were punching way over their weight class, frankly. They docked at the Vulture-Oumaru and then jumped out of system. The marauder limped back later with casualties.’
‘Who’s the marauder registered to?’
‘Do you honestly think that information is of any practical use?’ She had linked to his slate and pulled up the relevant documents for him: some shell company registered in Scintilla, where a million meaningless puppet enterprises had a fictional existence.
‘Track back,’ he directed, and she walked him through the chain of events, layering the evidence on his slate as she spoke. He took it in, but the spectre of a Partheni military action within the Colonial Sphere was looming large in his mind. Then one detail snagged in his brain and he said, ‘Wait, they visited a what?’