“Doing that requires prudence, discipline, and balance. I cannot abide discord here or among the sectors. To answer the question bubbling behind your lips, Trevor: No, I don’t intend to hold your hand or require you to ask permission each time you leave the office. You’re the most experienced security officer on Amity. Also the most controversial. And to my mind, someone who should have been fired.

  “However, you walk a carpet of roses in high places thanks to your grandfather’s ghost and his surviving cronies. I expressed my strongest objection to Central regarding your reassignment. They reminded me of the end date to my rotation.”

  Dorrit’s considerable cheeks turned bright red as he laughed. Trevor couldn’t help but admire the oversized creature for a shocking display of honesty.

  “Thank you for the clarity, Chief.”

  “I don’t want you to lose your job, Trevor. You have a lovely wife and daughter. The shame they would feel ... no. Not something I want a family to experience. So, you may continue your investigation. If it requires a return trip to Episteme or Harmony, brief me first. If I order you to close the case, you will do so without comment. Do these conditions sit well with you, First Deputy?”

  Trevor cleared his throat. As if he had any choice ...

  “They do, Chief. You’ll get no trouble from me.”

  “Lovely.”

  Dorrit motioned him out with a flick of the wrist.

  “One request, Chief. The other four MODs. I’d like access to the data spools. We have to be sure these are not connected.”

  Dorrit huffed like a man in dire need of more exercise.

  “Take what you have, Trevor. Show cause for expanding the investigation. Then – and only then – will I consider the request.”

  Trevor steamed but allowed the indignity to pass. Ten embarrassed minutes later, he cleared his mind and found resolve.

  Something was off. Way off.

  Instinct took control, and it told Trevor one thing:

  He had a murder to solve.

  14

  TREVOR’S OFFICE OVERFLOWED with visual data. He turned his back on the bank of monitors that broadcast from fifty of Haven’s public secure cams. He concentrated on the other two-thirds of his space, where he had filled a holospread with dozens of annotations.

  These dataflicks – transcribed notes embedded on white popups – hovered against the spread like unstable decorations on flimsy tree branches. Interview texts, analyses, hypotheticals, and biographies intermingled, some connected to each other by hand-drawn lines.

  Amid the convolution rested everything Trevor had gathered on Ulbrecht Hann – including trend waves based on seven months of LinkPass history. Three hours into creating a jigsaw with no fixed image, Trevor added dataflicks on Raison Club.

  He heard a knock followed by:

  “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned,” Hoshi said. She didn’t wait for permission to enter, not that Trevor would have refused. “Is this how your mind always works?”

  He grinned at her reasonable assessment.

  “Paranoia in the wild. Pull up a chair.”

  She grabbed a swivel and joined him.

  “What are you looking for, Trev?”

  “Patterns. Links. Inconsistencies. Confirmation.”

  “Of what?”

  “That my instinct hasn’t betrayed me.”

  “You’re convinced it was murder.”

  “I want to be. That’s what confirmation bias is all about.”

  “I checked in with the lifetechs. We should have the toxical in two hours. But even that might be inconclusive. If all they find is Motif, they’ll book it as an accidental overdose. And if we can’t show the Chief it warrants further investigation ...”

  Trevor sighed.

  “We close the case without comment. Exactly what his killer expected us to do.”

  “You sound like Eliza Hutton.”

  He heard a growing skepticism.

  “You think she’s overwrought. Even a liar?”

  Hoshi grabbed Eliza’s dataflick and expanded it.

  “Not what I said. At all. But she loved Ulbrecht. Love is ...”

  “Trust me, Hoshi. I know what it does to a person. And yes, it’s possible Ulbrecht thought he was in danger but exaggerated the threat. He might have been more paranoid than anyone.”

  She pointed to dataflicks clustered together, each containing a headshot of a student in Ulbrecht’s mentee group.

  “Their profiles? Trev, you aren’t pulling from their ...”

  “Just their public bios. I’m not violating the Charter. I’ll stay away from the LinkPass history ... for now. But the moment they become material witnesses, I’ll be running trend waves on the lot of them. By the way, good work on the backgrounding for Bien Thet and Mustafa Chait.”

  Hoshi thanked him with hesitation.

  “I did as you asked, Trev, but I really don’t see how it helps.”

  He gave Hoshi the side-eye. Was she serious? Trevor pushed his swivel toward those two profiles, around which he had posted dataflicks with their contradictory stories and a series of what-ifs.

  “Thet and Chait have incredible resumes. Thet was part of the team that built Maynor from nothing. He led two colleges on Indonesia Prime before and after the war. Chait is serving his fourth rotation, with praise galore from the student reflection boards. He was a mechanical engineering professor at the top school on Marianas. Before that, supervised the redesign of their largest lunar mining facility. Tripled their output inside a year.

  “These men are some of the best in their fields. They’re supposed to be on the same page about Maynor’s students. Agree?”

  Hoshi shrugged. “I would hope so.”

  “Yet when we asked about Ulbrecht, they contradicted each other. Thet said he was on the verge of expulsion. Chait praised Ulbrecht and said the so-called threat on Orval Erdogan’s life was nothing. How does that happen?”

  Hoshi stared at the info she compiled and shook her head.

  “Chait was Ulbrecht’s mentor. He was naturally more protective. Maybe even in denial.”

  It wasn’t a bad theory, but Trevor laughed anyway.

  “Mustafa Chait? That guy? I was surprised he didn’t walk around those students holding a whip. They didn’t answer our questions without looking at him first. He knew everything about his mentees.”

  “Perhaps the headmaster withheld information from Chait.”

  “Why? Thet said he consulted with all one thousand students every quarter. You saw how reverential they were toward him, like they knew their lives were in his hands. I’m sure he meets with the mentors on a regular basis.”

  Hoshi didn’t respond to his point. She switched into reverse.

  “Hold on a minute, Trev. Did I hear you right? You expect those students to become material witnesses? As in, suspects?”

  “I’m not saying anyone in that room is a killer, but the four men didn’t exactly shed a tear at the news. Not so much as a quiver. Eliza said they were jealous of Ulbrecht. And they shared a consensus: No one could match his mind or his energy. Thet said Ulbrecht would’ve made a huge mark in history. The loss should have hit them where it hurt. Aside from Eliza, they were empty vessels.”

  He pointed to Jor Kerrindos’ dataflick.

  “This one stands out. Insulted the guy not thirty seconds after learning he was dead. Said they were incompatible lab partners. Made a point of putting distance between him and Ulbrecht.”

  Hoshi said, “OK, so he’s a jackass. Maybe he saw Ulbrecht as a competitor. One less obstacle in his path.”

  “People have killed for less.”

  She stifled a laugh.

  “Paranoid and cynical.”

  Trevor slapped his bar.

  “That’s why they pay me the big creds.”

  “When was the last time you investigated a murder?”

  “Never. Not even trained as a detective. But I pay attention, Hoshi. It’s all about the details. My wife says I would be great in SI.” Trevor admired the incoherent product he threw together in short order. “There’s an answer here. I feel it take shape every time I move around a few flicks.”

  “Sure you aren’t kidding yourself?”

  He dared not take that bet, especially on the off chance that he was, in fact, delusional. This wouldn’t be the first time he saw a tempest in a teacup. Trevor ignored Hoshi’s challenge, but she wouldn’t let up.

  “Trev, if we’re going to talk about details, then let’s revisit the most problematic. You already established that Ulbrecht had no visitors last night. No one accessed his door after he returned home. We can’t get around a simple but inconvenient fact: No one forced him to take Motif.”

  He couldn’t square that truth with Eliza’s claim, which had to mean he wasn’t thinking far enough afield.

  “Physically? No. Ulbrecht was alone. A given. But if you were staging a murder to look like a simple overdose, you’d have to be extra clever. Yes?”

  OK, so maybe I’m reaching. Maybe. Shit.

  Trevor ignored Hoshi’s grimace and shifted his focus.

  “I need to speak with Orval Erdogan. He and Ulbrecht knew each other before they left Yaniff. See here.”

  He pointed out biographical data predating their rotation.

  “Twice they competed in transnational engineering contests. Orval finished third in both. Ulbrecht took first in one, second in the other. These young gents were rivals from the start.”

  Hoshi grabbed the relevant dataflick and read the details.

  “That might explain the threat. These men hated each other.”

  “Or maybe not. Take a look at this.”

  He pointed out Orval’s address. Hoshi raised an intrigued brow.

  “Andromeda 557. OK, that’s interesting.”

  “Ulbrecht’s floor. You told me this morning that people beat the Housing Authority’s assignment process so they can be clustered with their own ethnic groups. Orval and Ulbrecht arrived two days apart and became instant neighbors. Either they knew how to play the game and wanted to be close by, or that’s a hell of a coincidence.”

  Hoshi nodded. “I see where you’re going, but it’s also possible their relationship changed afterward. Seven months is a long time.”

  “It is. Which is why I need to speak with Orval.”

  “And since he lives in Haven ...”

  Trevor snapped his fingers.

  “I won’t have to clear it with the Chief.”

  “I assume you’d like to do it before the toxical report.”

  “Fresh is best.”

  “OK. I’m good whenever you’re ready, Trev.”

  “Appreciate the flexibility, but Orval won’t be home for another hour. He’s in apprenticeship at Atumwa, and you’re scheduled for solo patrol. Aft grid.”

  She groaned, of course. He knew the feeling.

  Solo patrols, most of which involved walking neighborhoods and checking in with local businesses, rarely amounted to anything but an opportunity to present the colors and allow residents to know Sec Admin was keeping tabs. Good exercise, but little more.

  “I’ll switch with Sinjun,” she said. “He owes me for last week.”

  “Wouldn’t hear of it. I can handle the interview myself. Orval is going to be tricky. He and Ulbrecht were both Turks. They’ve known each other for a while. Two badges might intimidate him.”

  Trevor heard the objection before it crossed her lips.

  “If this does turn out to be a murder investigation, I intend to be your partner. Frankly, you need someone to act as a check. I acquitted myself well today when you allowed me to contribute.”

  An eventful day in her young career. No doubt. Still ...

  “Yes, Hoshi. You added some valuable touches. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “I could go over your head.”

  She wasn’t serious; Trevor heard mockery in her tone.

  “I see.” He replied with a playful grin. “A little insubordination on the first day? Nice.”

  “Not at all. I think the Chief would want us to be thorough.”

  “Hah. Dorrit wants all this to go away. Look, Hoshi. We were thrown together into this ... whatever it is ... by happenstance. He could’ve assigned anyone to me this morning. You did well, all things considered. I’ll handle the interview. After the toxical report returns, we’ll evaluate the next step, assuming there is one.”

  Trevor didn’t intend to sound patronizing, but her disappointed Hokki eyes told a different story. He never meant to hurt her feelings, but the same could be said a hundred times over since he first wore the bar. Effie once claimed her husband introduced a new verb into Engleshe:

  “Trevored,” she said. “Feeling smaller and less worthy after an encounter with Trevor Stallion.”

  “That’s not fair. I never go into a conversation looking to beat someone down.”

  “Yet you succeed more often than not.”

  Effie offered to teach skills she developed in the DRC. He vowed to use them, but lack of patience with other humans got in the way.

  Hoshi insisted she didn’t take it personally, but her tone suggested otherwise. Trevor tried his usual reassurance:

  “I’m no linguistic master. Each day with me gets easier. Trust me.”

  “You’re sure I can’t switch with Sinjun? I’d really love to ...”

  “No. Follow the routine. Right now, I’d say there’s even odds we won’t have a case after today. If we do, you’re on my team.”

  She looked around, as if someone was missing.

  “What team? You have a roster?”

  Fair point.

  “For me, two is enough. A third voice is a nasty ringing in the ear.”

  “So, you could never do a job like, say, headmaster?”

  His personal pom chimed inside his jacket.

  “Thet scares me. I don’t trust anyone who accepts bows.”

  Trevor grabbed the gold-lined comms device, which flipped open like an ancient pocket watch.

  Life stopped when Effie’s tear-soaked face rose into a holo.

  He knew that helpless, empty stare.

  Please, no. Not again.

  “Talk to me,” he said.

  “It’s Ana. She’s seizing.”

  “How bad?”

  “It’s violent. Worst in years. Trevor, I ...”

  “No need. I’m there.”

  “Hurry.”

  In a flash, life simplified. A man might have been murdered, and Trevor walked a tightrope with his new boss. So what? His little girl was going through hell, and her father was to blame.

  Life. Real simple.

  15

  WHAT DO I TELL THE CHIEF?” Hoshi asked as Trevor bolted for the door, unsure when he’d return.

  “My daughter’s sick,” Trevor yelled back, glancing toward the glass office where Dorrit sat amid his family hologlyphs, oblivious to the disturbance. “Nothing else matters.”

  He grabbed a rifter and made a mad dash for the Crossway. There, he’d be stuck for ... how long?

  Trevor checked the train schedule. Next one to Harmony was eight minutes out. Might as well have been eighty.

  C’mon, Trev. Get a handle on yourself. She needs you at your best. No sobbing. Not this time.

  He waited on the platform, tapping his fingers on the bench in a calming rhythm.

  They had almost talked themselves into believing the shudders were behind Ana. She hadn’t seized in four months, and even that one was mild compared to the previous. Lasted less than an hour, and she was cogent most of the time.

  Of course, the doctor gave them fair warning:

  “The earliest we’ve ever seen this condition phase out is ten years old. At some point, we expect the age minimum to decrease. Ana’s most recent shudder is a positive sign. Perhaps she’ll set the new standard.”

  Doc Edina Forster was the leading expert on neurofascitis. She smiled, laughed, and engaged like an old friend. So much so, Effie and Trevor inferred something close to a promise in her forecast.

  A hundred ten standard days later, the nightmare returned with a vengeance. Violent, Effie said. Worst in years.

  Each episode triggered memories of the day they first received the news. Ana Marie was a week from her first birthday when the twitching began. Her little arms jerked, and she kicked uncontrollably. Her fingers played an invisible piano. Her cries turned to shrieks as the shudder continued, the condition attacking her joints.

  “I’m so sorry,” Trevor told Effie after the diagnosis. “Look what I did to her.”

  Effie rejected his apologies. He doubted their love would survive the revelation, but his wife insisted nothing could break them.

  “We knew there was a risk, Trev. I wanted her anyway. I’m as much to blame.”

  Disruptive neurofascitis, they called it. One of many legacies of the Chancellors’ long genetic collapse. Thousands of cases arose across the Collectorate in the decades after the last supplies of brontinium extract dried up.

  For centuries, Trevor’s ancestors modified their biology to enhance growth both physical and intellectual. Their pursuit of supremacy over the human race knew no limitations. The extract, drawn from the hardest known mineral on the forty worlds, proved pivotal.

  Then every vein of brontinium disintegrated on the only planet where it was found. When Hiebimini died in 5311, the Chancellory faced a slow, inexorable death of its own. Insiders hid the truth: Without extract, Chancellors would lose the ability to bear children. Their progeny would be diminished, and illnesses they avoided for centuries would return en masse. The caste would die out in five or six generations.

  Trevor and Effie first consulted Doc Forster two months into the pregnancy. Trevor assumed Effie would do the practical thing. Then Forster presented hope.

  “Two percent. Your genetic profile,” she told Trevor, “rates the likelihood of genetic defects in your child at two percent. If you were both Chancellors, the risk would increase tenfold.”