make your most evil tyrants appear saints by comparison. However, as a general rule, in order to reach the kind of technology level where destroying a sun is achievable, a society must be relatively stable.”
“Some of our biggest leaps have been made during wartime,” Mac said.
“I agree that humans are most adept at innovating when placed under pressure or threat,” the High Angel said. “But there is a difference between building new weapons and the fundamental theories upon which such technical advances are based. Genuine scientific progress is a slow climb, which requires a stable society to support thinkers and theorists over many generations. Evolution usually means that the species which break out of their planetary environment have some inbuilt social or biological mechanism for restraining their prehistory savagery. Of course there are many exceptions, with determined individuals circumventing such strictures. And it could well be that a less developed culture obtains the relics and knowledge left behind by a more advanced race. But to extrapolate that to a race or entity which poses a physical threat to a star is almost beyond probability.”
“Then why the barrier?”
“I really don’t know,” the High Angel said. “But from my experience and observation I’m ninety-nine percent certain that it was not to ward off aggression.”
“It’s the one percent that kills you,” Oscar mused.
“Inevitably. But I am not aware of any species within thousands, if not tens of thousands, of light-years which is capable of aggression on this scale. I may be wrong, for I don’t claim to be infallible. It could even be argued that the mega-flare which eliminated most of the life on Far Away was an example of such belligerence, it certainly falls beyond the ethics of most civilizations and species. However, as you are aware, I do maintain a comprehensive observation of space over a great many parsecs. If such a threat is out there, then it has the ability to elude my senses. A worrying development, I concede.”
“Or so big a threat it’s actually not worth worrying about,” Mac said.
“That’s a very human viewpoint,” the High Angel said. “I don’t subscribe to it myself. But then by your standards I’m something of a coward.”
“Is that why you haven’t visited the Dyson Pair?”
“Let’s just say, this is a comfortable distance to watch from. I am curious, which is why in this instance I am keen to help you beyond my normal capacity.”
Oscar ran his hand back through his hair. “Thank you for that. If you do observe anything relevant…”
“I will inform you of course. And please feel free to call me again should you have any further inquiries. In the future, I will accept a direct link from either of you through the unisphere.”
…
Both Paula and Hoshe spent the express train journey to Kerensk sitting quietly in first class, running through information from the case. Diagrams, text summaries, financial graphs, they all swarmed through their virtual vision. Even Paula’s attention wavered occasionally under the relentless flow.
However, they both abandoned the case data for the shuttle trip over to the High Angel. Hoshe was fascinated by what he could see outside the windows, requesting a stream of descriptive information from his e-butler. Once they’d docked at the base of the New Glasgow stalk, Paula instructed her e-butler to query the High Angel’s internal information net for directions as the other passengers drifted past on their way to the lift. A subsidiary net program directed her down the curving corridor to a door that opened into a smaller lift capsule.
“Did you find anything relevant in the case files?” she asked as the doors closed and they started to accelerate.
Hoshe glanced around the lift suspiciously. “Can we talk in here?”
“Yes. The High Angel is aware of everything inside itself. And I’ve already briefed it about the case.”
“Oh. Right. Well, the Tampico National Tax Office was helpful. After the flotation, the shares from Tara’s half of the company were deposited into the Tampico First State Bank by Broher Associates, her divorce lawyers. Eight months later, those were then exchanged for Gansu Construction shares when Morton agreed to the buyout. All very standard. Then they just sat there until she was re-lifed, at which point she transferred them back to her accountant on Oaktier.”
“What about the dividends?”
“Gansu was an excellent deal. They’ve paid dividends every four months, and the share price has gone up twelve times their original price in that time—Morton is a good director. The money went straight into the bank’s long-term investment account, which also did reasonably well over seventeen years, although the percentage was lower than most managed funds. No money was ever taken out; it stayed there and grew for her. The bank paid local tax on it every year. Nobody questioned the timescale. Apparently, there are a lot of accounts left untouched like that, some of them for centuries.”
“Did she have a current account with First State?”
“No.”
“And there’s no record of Wyobie Cotal having any kind of account off Oaktier? If they had lived there on Tampico, they had to have some kind of funds. They’d be traceable.”
“All credit transfers from Tara’s Oaktier bank dried up after the final balance was paid, three weeks after she supposedly left for Tampico. The last item on the account was a payment to Broher Associates for handling the divorce case, that was a week prior to the final balance payment. That all checks out, Broher Associates served Morton the divorce file a fortnight after she left. The bank changed her account status from current to sleeper three years later; that’s standard procedure when it’s been inactive for that length of time, it prevents any less-than-honest bank employee from spotting she’s not using it and siphoning off the money themselves. To open it up again after her re-life she had to go in with a court order confirming her identity.”
“What’s listed on her credit account in the two weeks before paying her lawyers?”
“Not a damn thing. The second to last payment is for her lunch with Caroline Turner. There is nothing in the period between that and the divorce lawyers.”
“Do we know where she was when the payment to the lawyers was made?”
“No. Just somewhere within the unisphere.”
“No live sighting or confirmation then,” Paula mused. The banks would swear in court that anyone with an account had to be alive for the pattern code to work. It was a complete lie, of course; banks across the Commonwealth lost billions to credit hackers every year. The only really secure credit account was with the SI bank; and she’d seen classified reports on the ultra-grade hackers who had even managed to forge those transfers, though it involved cellular reprofiling and assuming the victim’s life. A pattern code, however detailed and complex, could always be copied and duplicated given enough time and resources.
“What about Wyobie Cotal, did he spend any money on Tampico?”
“No. I checked his account. Same story as Tara. No purchases after the day they disappeared together. His bank changed the account from current to sleeper two years later.”
“Who paid for the tickets to Tampico?”
“Cash transaction the morning they went missing. But they were registered in Tara’s name.”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way of knowing if they were actually used?”
“No. CST doesn’t keep that kind of information.”
“They have sensors and cameras in every planetary station.”
“But the data isn’t archived for four decades, it would cost a fortune. They keep it for a couple of years at most, and that varies between stations.”
“What about cash? Did either of them make any large withdrawals before they supposedly left Oaktier?”
“No, neither of them ever made any large cash withdrawals from their Oaktier accounts, period. So unless one of them had a secret numbered account somewhere it’s hard to believe they were alive, even for that first fortnight.”
“Humm.” Paula reached out and used her cuff fuseto on the wall, steadying herself as the lift capsule changed direction. She knew they were traveling along the inside of the giant starship’s hull now, heading for the Raiel habitation dome. “I suppose it’s possible she could have sold some jewelry and lived off that money. But why would she? The whole case that they went to Tampico is getting worse the closer we look at it.”
“I haven’t believed it for some time.”
“Me neither. But we must always be sure, Hoshe.”
“Of course.”
“My Directorate has been unable to find any secure memory store facility opened by Tara. I think that just about makes it official. She was killed, and presumably Cotal as well. We now need to find a motive, which is the really puzzling part of all this. It certainly isn’t financial. I’m still inclined to think Shaheef and Cotal walked in on some criminal activity; the payment to the lawyers two weeks later would tend to support that because someone was clearly busy building up the alibi that they were still alive. If so, there will be very little evidence for us to find.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Process of elimination. I want to lock down Shaheef’s personal life. All of it.” Her hands gripped the small bag she was carrying. She could tell Hoshe was deeply uncertain about the whole concept, but like a good policeman he wasn’t criticizing his boss. Not yet.
The lift rose up the stalk to the Raiel dome, and the gravity field asserted itself, reaching eighty percent Earth standard. Hoshe took a moment to steady himself; he’d never seen an alien in the flesh before—though his wife was always talking about visiting the Silfen. But then this break in everyday life was all part of working with Paula Myo. He’d pulled in every favor, real or imagined, with the division’s captain to stay assigned to the case when it became known she was taking it on. Success by association was always welcome, but he genuinely wanted to see her working her magic. There was also the remote possibility she might endorse an application to the Serious Crimes Directorate. Hoshe hadn’t mentioned that piece of career planning to anyone, but the idea was firmly lodged at the back of his mind now.
When the door opened it was a slight anticlimax; rather than some exotic alien metropolis he was looking out on a gloomy alleyway with smooth matte-black metal walls thirty meters high. Above him, the dome’s crystal was transparent, permitting Icalanise’s wan amber light to shine through. Small red lights were embedded along the foot of the alley walls, glimmering like candlelit jewels. He found the silence imposing, a complete absence of even the faintest sound.
“It probably looks better in the daytime,” he decided.
“This is the daytime,” Paula told him primly. She started walking.
Twice, Hoshe was convinced something big flew overhead, just above the walls. A subliminal rustle of air, maybe the light flickering ever so slightly. Of course, whenever he looked up, all he could see was the rigid strip of dome crystal above the walls.
“Do you know where we’re going?” he asked.
“More or less. The city geometry changes slightly the whole time, its buildings and streets tend to move around, but they do it slowly. Don’t worry, the High Angel won’t let us go anywhere we shouldn’t.” She paused at an intersection. This alley was a little wider, and had green lights glinting along its length. A Raiel was moving along it, heading toward them. In the dim light it was hard to see anything but a large dark bulk sliding closer, which made the huge alien even more intimidating. An
