TWENTY-SIX

 

 

ADRIANA CLIEF SAT at her desk, her hand covering her mouth, her heart pounding. Her links were cluttered with messages from all sorts of people, wondering why Dmitri Tsepen hadn’t shown up for his speech yet. On the various screens in front of her, reporters repeated the news of Mayor Arek Soseki’s death, although no one knew what of.

Her head ached. She had just decided not to do anything to help Tsepen anymore, but she hadn’t expected to get inundated in contacts. People still expected her to be the competent one, even though she had decided not to be.

Besides, they couldn’t reach Tsepen—which was normal—so they were in the habit of contacting her.

She got up and watered a few of the flowering plants. Then she picked off a few dead buds. Deadheading. That was what it was called, and that was what she was doing, not just to the plants, but to Dmitri. She was deadheading him, picking him off because he had become useless.

She looked down the hall at his closed door. He was probably still passed out, not that he would be useful anyway. If she sent him to the speech, she would have to find something that would clear up his drunkenness, and most of the remedies, except the rather stringent nanobot cleaning, left him muzzy-headed or didn’t work at all.

He really had become a fall-down drunk, and like any codependent person, she hadn’t noticed.

A red line flashed across her right eye, followed by an urgent message.

Then the image of Noelle DeRicci, Head of Security for the United Domes, rose in Clief’s vision, making her headache worse.

“Let me put you on visual,” she said, trying to take the message out of her vision.

“No,” DeRicci said. “This is a coded transmission. Anything visual would break the code.”

Clief sighed, and moved away from the plants. She plopped down behind her desk again and wished she could close her eyes and lean her head back, ignoring everything.

“I suppose they’re all contacting you because he hasn’t shown up at his stupid speech,” she said. “I’m sorry for that. It won’t happen again.”

“What?” DeRicci said, and Clief swore she heard a tinge of panic in DeRicci’s tone. “Tsepen’s missing?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Clief said. “He’s passed out drunk in his office.”

DeRicci let out a sigh, and it seemed like a sigh of relief, which also surprised Clief.

“Look,” DeRicci said, “what I’m about to tell you is classified. You cannot tell anyone. Are we clear?”

“Clear,” Clief said, wondering what the hell was going on.

“A group of clones have targeted the leaders of various Moon communities. There’s been an attack on the governor-general and on Mayor Julian in Moscow Dome. I’m trying to reach the other mayors now.”

“And Arek Soseki?” Clief asked, her heart suddenly racing.

“Yes. They killed him.” DeRicci’s tone was flat. “And we’re not sure the governor-general is going to make it either. So it’s good that Dmitri didn’t make it to his speech.”

Clief shook her head. “He lives a charmed life.”

DeRicci frowned. “People are complaining that he’s not there?”

“Yes,” Clief said.

“So they’re still waiting for him?”

“Yes,” Clief said.

“Excellent. Close the hall where he’s supposed to speak. Don’t let anyone in or out. I’ll coordinate with law enforcement in Glenn Station. We’re going to search for one of those bastards.”

Clief shook her head again. If they caught one of those bastards, Tsepen was going to look like a prescient saint instead of a drunken screw-up.

“Can you work with me on this, Adriana?” DeRicci asked.

“I’d be happy to, sir,” Clief said. So much for her vow of non-involvement.

“All right,” DeRicci said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”