Chapter 21 #2
When I step out of the spacecraft, a DE-93 bot is already there on the deck waiting to take my gun.
Which, okay—I get that I earned myself a red card, and red card protocol bars me from carrying weapons within the space station, but …
seriously? They’re sending a bot to intercept me the moment I step foot back on Skyhub like they don’t trust me to hand the weapon over myself?
Also, could they not bother sending an actual sentient being?
I’m tempted to kick the bot in its stupid metal body.
“Keller?” Vera looks concerned. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I clip. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I shove my ray gun into the bot’s open compartment (outlined by an obnoxious red sign that reads PLACE GUN HERE) and start marching toward the elevators.
Lament is there, moving like he’s going to step into my path, but I ignore him and barrel past. My mood has shifted from upset to downright venomous, and my chest hurts, and right now all I want is to lock myself in my room before I do or say something I’ll regret.
I don’t get the chance, as the universe would have it, because there’s a sudden chorus of zzzzhing as all our handhelds vibrate in unison. I pull mine out to see a new message from Sergeant Forst. Debrief, my office, 0900. Come straight from the deck. And make sure Mr. Hartman relinquishes his gun.
Which is just the icing on the cake, really.
We march together through the detachment’s clean, empty halls into the sergeant’s office.
She’s waiting for us behind her desk, her hair pulled into its usual low bun, her eyes tracking our movement.
Though there’s plenty of space for the ten of us to spread out, we traverse the room in a triangle formation, shoulder to shoulder, everyone’s blind spots covered. Like we’re marching to battle.
If the sergeant notices our positioning, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she steps to the side, revealing a man sitting in a chair against the wall behind her.
Professor Trey Morton.
I grind to a halt, causing Avi to bump into my back. The words whip out of me before I can stop them. “What’s he doing here?”
The sergeant lifts her brows. “Trey Morton is on the Board of Directors. It’s his right to observe fleet debriefs if he wishes.”
“Any fleet debrief?”
The sergeant’s pause is short, but unmistakable. “Is there a problem, Mr. Hartman?”
Yes, yeah, thanks for asking. “No.”
“Good.” The sergeant turns her attention to Lament. “Before we begin, I would like to address you in person, Mr. Bringer. I’ve read your full injury statement. Illiviamona reports that she was able to successfully close your wounds and restore you to good health. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Lament says, without emphasis.
“Has there been any word on finding the rioter who assaulted you?”
I almost blurt out a Wait, what rioter? but catch myself at the last second.
Lament wasn’t hurt by a rioter. He was hurt by a rabid ape.
It only takes a moment for me to remember why he wouldn’t want the sergeant to know about that—Lament is forbidden from investigating Bast’s death, and admitting the truth about the ape would mean admitting what we found at Mount Kilmon—but still, I can’t help but feel another pang of resentment.
If he planned to lie again, wasn’t he going to warn me?
I am hanging on to the final threads of my patience.
“We will continue to pressure Soto’s law enforcement,” the sergeant says.
“Assaulting a Legion member is a Class III offense, and it’s the duty of city enforcers to hunt down the perpetrator.
I am glad, however, you suffered no lasting damage.
That’s thanks to you, Ms. Urvurana.” She nods at Illiviamona. “We are lucky to have you.”
“There is no wound,” replies the Lorian, “I do not enjoy. Tending.”
“Indeed.” The sergeant makes an aborted motion, like she means to glance at the man behind her but catches herself. She leans her hands against the desk instead. “I am ready to hear your report.”
Vera gives it. She relays the story of our trip to Soto, Ran Doc Min’s hologram, the riot. She explains (honestly and accurately) the ensuing fight, how Randomists turned against Determinists, how the whole episode ended with Avi’s use of the Time Stopper.
“Ran Doc Min’s predictions were clear,” Vera finishes. “He claims Mount Kilmon will spread a poisonous gas called voroxide across the planet during this year’s eruption. Given our investigation, we believe he’s telling the truth.”
“Of course he’s telling the truth,” Professor Morton says.
Like before, he’s dressed in a tweed jacket and a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles, his hair somewhat askew, though his goatee is neatly styled.
It makes me wonder what kind of professor he is, exactly.
Assuming he’s even a professor at all. Maybe not.
Maybe he just introduces himself as Professor Morton and banks on the fact no one will double-check.
“FPS has correctly anticipated a dozen such planetary events with pinpoint accuracy. If Ran Doc Min announces a prediction, we have every reason to trust him.”
The sergeant’s fingers flex against the desk. “Mr. Morton, while your presence at this meeting is permitted, I would ask that you not interfere with my debrief.”
The professor (?) sits back and crosses his hands over his stomach, giving a slight smile.
I look between them, feeling surprised. I thought, given the way my red card hearing went, Sergeant Forst and Trey Morton were chummy.
It’s only now that I take a true look at the sergeant’s posture, her pinched mouth, the tightness around her eyes.
What’s going on here?
“Miss Bergmont.” The sergeant nods at Vera. “You were saying?”
“Oh,” Vera squeaks. “Right. Um. While on Venthros, the Sky Runner’s air quality instruments picked up a change in the atmosphere.
Jester ran the report. There are indeed fumes leaking from Mount Kilmon.
Though we’ve never seen anything like this gas before, we have reason to believe it’s the poisonous vapor that Doc Min predicted, and…
,” Vera hesitates, then rushes on quickly, “it’s also the same unidentified space mist that killed Bast.”
Lament’s eyes fly to Vera. His expression hardens in betrayal, but before he can speak, Professor (?) Morton says, “Mr. Vinicchi’s case is closed. That investigation is over.”
“Mr. Morton,” the sergeant warns. “I asked you not to interrupt.”
“Bast’s case was closed before we knew about the voroxide,” Vera presses, ignoring the furious look Lament is shooting her, or the way her words seem to wind the room tight with tension. “Given this new information—”
“I understand the death of Mr. Vinicchi has been difficult,” Morton says, with the air of someone who has had this argument many times and secretly enjoys it, “but the Board of Directors has already made up their minds on the matter.”
“Trey,” the sergeant snaps, spinning to face him. “It’s not your place to speak here.”
“I am merely setting the girl straight.”
“These are my fleet members. I will set them straight.”
“I am a Director.”
“And as such, your duty is to oversee higher issues brought to the attention of the Board, not to meddle in my fleet meetings.”
The corners of Morton’s mouth kick up. “Careful, Helda.”
The sergeant turns back to us. She takes a deep breath that seems to do nothing to quell her anger and says, “I hear your concerns, Miss Bergmont, and I take them seriously. However, to reopen Mr. Vinicchi’s case—”
“You can’t,” Morton says.
“—we would need to file an official request, which must be approved by the Board—”
“It will be denied,” Morton says.
“—followed by a new assignment of funds—”
“Impossible,” Morton says.
“It seems,” the sergeant says in a voice that has reached a dangerous pitch, “we will not be able to finish this meeting, given that our observer continues to speak out of turn. I apologize on his behalf for the lack of respect he is showing you here today.”
Morton blinks. “I hardly think—”
“If you have further concerns, we can discuss them at a later date,” the sergeant continues through her teeth. And then, in a voice that makes even me quail: “You are dismissed.”