Serial - Part 8 (OC)

Serial (Part 8 – Accomplice)

Vigari and Jackson gaped down at the message for a long stretch, neither looking at each other or the Keleshi peace keepers who were now glaring at them in open, if silent, outrage.

“Blood on the ground,” Jackson whispered, “Now blood in the skies.”

“Think it’s a reference to the Kelesh?” Vigari asked.

It did make some sense, Jackson had to admit. Theolisian’s were notoriously nervous fliers, much preferring the stability of ground beneath their feet. Not so for the Kelesh, most of whom learned to fly before they could walk. Maybe the messages were symbolic of the victim? But if so what was the killer trying to say? That he would find them wherever they were?

Jackson glanced at Vigari, his eyes drawn to the black lens of the Live Mind’s electronic eye, mounted on Vigari’s temple. Then he turned, looking out into the wheat a moment before he began to climb the pole on which the victim, Walash, had been mounted moments ago.

“What are you doing?” Vigari asked, the shock in his voice quickly replaced with alarm.

Jackson ignored the question, “Did anybody see the victim being transported here? Any witnesses? Cameras?”

“If there were I would have told you,” Vigari growled, now glaring at Jackson as he perched himself in a seated position atop the scarecrow post. “Last footage of the victim was of her entering into her private shuttle. She never made it home so we can assume the killer was waiting inside for her.”

“So where is the shuttle?” Jackson asked, although he didn’t expect Vigari to have the answer. Shielding his eyes from the Keleshi sun he peered out over the top of the field until he saw what he was looking for. Fifty yards from the edge of the field was a squat gray building with the words “Agri-Warehouse 4” scrawled across the side. Outside it, milling about in a circle, were eight humans, likely the same farm hands that had discovered the body.

“The shuttle was tracked to this location before the transponder was disabled. The Kelesh peace keepers are trying to track it from there. Why, what are you getting at?” Vigari asked.

He grinned down at Vigari, his shadow encompassing the smaller Em. “What I mean is you don’t kidnap a woman and fly her ten thousand Kilometers in her own shuttle without someone seeing something. Stay here.”

Jackson pushed off of the pole, landing on the soft ground eight feet below and starting towards the distant warehouse when Vigari caught his arm. “You’re not the one to give orders, kid. Look, I know you are used to flying off on your own but you are not on your ship anymore and there are rules. You have to be supervised.”

Jackson suppressed the urge to match the anger in Vigari’s words. He swallowed the surge of outrage in his chest, reminding himself that he had sworn himself into this. It had been his choice and it fell on him to deal with the collar that came with the job, regardless of how tight it was. “Look,” he said, “I’m not running off. The field hands are right over there, the human field hands. You come over there with me, they might clam up. Let me talk to them, human to human and I promise I will be right back over to report what I found. Besides, I think you have something else to deal with,” he nodded to where the Keleshi peace keeper stood, ten feet behind Vigari. His arms were crossed and his talons extended in barely contained rage. The badges on his arm indicated he was a Captain.

Vigari glanced at him, then back to Jackson. “Go. Be fast and come right back. Keep your Live Mind feed going the entire time.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. As Vigari turned to face the wrath of the Keleshi Captain, Jackson vanished into the dense sea of wheat.

When he emerged out the other side the small group of men and women were only twenty odd yards away, half sitting, half standing in a circle around a silver cooler. Jackson approached, taking care to keep his hands visible. To most of what remained of humanity the red coated Inquisitors were maybe just a little too close to the secret police back on earth and hence many had carried those same fears with them all the way to Keleshia. Even now, in broad daylight, Jackson noticed a few concerned glances.

There were five men and three women, each clad in jeans and thermals. Jackson recognized most of them, if not by name then by face. The one who rose to meet him was Ryan Dillinger. On board the ship he had been a plumber, working to keep the water recycler running and the coolant lines sealed. A good guy, if memory served. He had been part of the team that figured out how to grow fungal colonies from disused bedding materials, which had provided just enough calories to keep those who did survive alive during the last month of their voyage. It seemed Ryan had taken to farming and traded in his wrench for a hoe since hitting landfall. His thin hands were now densely calloused and his drawn, gaunt face had developed a bit of a tan.

“The good sheriff,” Ryan said, faded blue eyes twinkling like dirty ice, “Or should I say Inquisitor. See you got yourself a nice coat.” He held out his hand and Jackson took it, inwardly delighted to finally hear someone else talking Humana.

“I did,” Jackson replied, eyeing the rest of the group. A few of them, he knew, were Creed’s people. He would need to watch them. On board the ship Kyle Creed had been a constant pain in the ass. If he wasn’t assaulting someone or stealing food, he was trying to carve himself out a little kingdom. At one point he had even tried to secede from the ship, claiming several of the cargo holds and claiming its provisions for himself. It hadn’t been until Jackson had tuned him up with a stun stick that he had changed his song. Miller had wanted to put him out the air lock for that, Jackson almost let her. Jackson turned his attentions back to Ryan, “Speaking of which, as you guess this isn’t a social visit.”

Ryan shoved his hands into his pockets and nodded, his eyes drawn past Lawrence towards the field. “You here about that lady who got killed?”

“It ain’t a lady,” muttered another member of the group. His name was Edward White, a broad faced kid of eighteen with shoulders like a silverback and about as much brain power as most garden spuds. “It’s a freak,” he added, spitting for effect.

A real charmer, Jackson thought but didn’t say. Of course he wanted to correct the kid, but he knew it wouldn’t do a bit of good. He was one of Creed’s, which was to say that anything Jackson could say would sound to him like the Devil’s talk. After all, it had been Jackson who joined up with the Gestapo and it had been Jackson who had assisted Miller when she negotiated the deal that landed them safe harbor on Keleshia. Thankfully, Ryan did the correcting for him. “She’s lady enough, now shut your damn trap, boy.”

Suppressing a grateful grin Jackson gestured towards the field, “Did any of you happen to see what might have happened?” he asked.

Ryan shook his head, as did most of those gathered. “No sir. Farm runs automated at night. We were in town.”

“Any cameras on the property? Anything unregistered?” Jackson asked. Of course any licensed surveillance cameras would have been registered, their feeds available to the Live Mind. But that didn’t rule out any private closed network systems they might have set up off the books.

Ryan shook his head instantly, “No sir. There are some registered inside the warehouses, but nothing external.”

Jackson had expected the answer, which is why his eyes were not on Ryan. Instead he looked over the others. When a woman flinched from his gaze he knew he had hit pay dirt.

“What about you?” he asked, pointing to the woman. “You know of any cameras that might have been facing towards the fields?”

The woman was tall and thin, more leg than anything with a pinched face that made her look like she had just bitten into something sour. Her name was Wendy or Wren, he couldn’t remember but he had the faint memory of her threatening to gut him with a screwdriver the day he beat the piss out of Creed. She shook her head a little too emphatically, “No sir, that would be illegal.”

“I didn’t ask if an unregistered system was legal. I asked if it exists,” he said. He approached her, the circle parting to let him pass and she shrank before him, narrow eyes glancing towards Jackson’s hip where his Hound was holstered. “Look,” he said, “I got a gutted person out in that field. A Kelesh, which means the Keleshi peace keepers are already pretty pissed off that I’m here at all. So how about you tell me where the camera is and where I might be able to get a look at its footage and you have my word there will be no trouble for it. Don’t tell me and I have to bring you in where Inquisitors that far meaner than me will take their time getting the truth,” he leaned in close, letting his voice drop an octave, “by any means necessary.”

It was, perhaps, a little heavy handed. Jackson wasn’t even sure if it was true. Direct questioning of prisoners went the way of Earth when neuro-tech became advanced enough to project memories onto screens. But, he was willing to bet that she didn’t know that. The woman looked down at the ground and then glanced up and to the right. Jackson followed her gaze. Twenty yards away there was an old Earth tractor, its tires deflated and its metal nearly rusted to dust, likely taken from the Hermes and parked there as a sort of monument for the farm crew.

“So if I go over there and I search that thing, I am going to find a camera?” Jackson asked.

“Don’t you tell that son of a bitch a thing Wren,” one of the other men said, his tone sharp enough to curdle milk.

“Fucking turn coat,” Eddie White added.

Ryan shot another withering glare at Eddie while Jackson turned to face the first man. He was rat faced, with small, yellowed eyes and a wispy mustache that might be considered peach fuzz if given a year to grow. “Emery,” Jackson said, “still the charmer, I see.”

Emery didn’t so much as acknowledge Jackson, his eyes instead boring holes into Wren, “Don’t you fucking talk or I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

Jackson interjected, stepping between Emery and the woman, his hand unconsciously falling to rest on the smooth handle of his Hound. “That’s a threat of violence to a Consortium protected member, Emery. By law I have the right to detain you for that. I would suggest you keep a civil tongue or I will-“

“Or you’ll what?” Emry said, turning his attentions now on Lawrence. His breath was hot and damn like sewer air. “Shoot me? Go ahead, traitor. You already sold yourself for that coat, mind as well just do it you fucking whore.”

For a moment Jackson was tempted. Emery was more wind than storm but all the same Jackson had never liked his shifty, nervous eyes. Not the kind of guy who had the guts to jump him, but exactly the kind of guy to get steamed up and make a serious mistake. Jackson took a step forward, close enough to see the oil sheen on Emery’s nose. When he spoke his voice was hard and cold, his father’s voice, “You will keep a civil tongue or I will make you swallow a stun stick along with your remaining dignity. Am I clear?”

“You can’t threaten me like that,” he snapped, “You just said. I’m as much a citizen as-“

“I can,” Jackson cut him off. He smiled, now leaning forward until he drove Emery back a step, “Law is full of fuzzy lines when it comes to us Inquisitors. We can do things you can’t even imagine. Things that’ll turn your hair white just to think it.”

Creed might have thrown a punch. Emery shrank, sullen and frothing, “Kyle will hear about this,” he said, turning to storm off. “Don’t you fucking tell him nothing whore!” he shouted back towards Wren and then he was gone. Jackson peered around the remaining seven humans. Four, including Ryan, looked relieved, the other three combinations of pissed and panicked. So much for human on human interaction, he thought, his earlier delight already souring. “Wren,” he said, “Walk me over there and show me the camera, if you would be so kind.”

Wren, more and more looking like a cornered animal, shot wild desperate looks to Eddie and the others in the circle. When none of them came to her aid she turned and started towards the tractor.

“See ya later, Jack,” Ryan said. Jackson tipped him an appreciative nod and started after Wren, jogging the first few steps before falling in beside her.

“What’s the camera for?” he asked.

She swallowed, her skin looking paler the closer they got to the tractor. “It was Creed’s idea. He says that the aliens are spraying chemicals on our crop. Make us obedient.”

Jackson laughed, eliciting an terrified gape from Wren. He gestured to his coat, “Well shit,” he said, “Looks like I had a bit too big an appetite.”

She smiled. It was pained and still brimming with terror, but it was something. When they reached the tractor she moved around to the front of it and, wedging her fingernails into the seam, popped the glass free from the right headlight. Inside a small camera had been mounted in place of the bulb, wide angle and pointed right at the field. A step in the right direction, Jackson thought. The camera was mounted to the interior of the headlight housing by four steel screws which he, multi-tool in hand, began to work at.

After a moment of watching him Wren wrapped her arms around herself, “Am I… Am I free to go?”

“Free as a bird,” Jackson said. She turned to go but he caught her eye, “And hey, thanks.”

For a moment he thought she would cry but instead her twisting face settled on rage, “Fuck off,” she spat. Then she turned and began her march back towards the group. He watched her go. He supposed he couldn’t blame her, or any of Creed’s people. Just defending whatever little shred of normalcy they thought they were owed. Back on earth they might have even been good people but hunger and darkness leave marks on the soul that don’t wash off with a few meals and a warm bed.

Jackson undid the final screw and pulled the small camera free. There was a port on the back which he, after a moment navigating interfaces, linked to his tablet. The footage flooded his display, each unit stamped with a range and run time. He selected the hour long period following Walash’s abduction and, after fast forwarding through half an hour of wheat and moonlight, hit pay dirt. The black shape of the shuttle entered the frame from the right and passed out of view to the left. A minute later a man came into view. The camera only got shots of his back but he was tall, thin and bald, wearing farmer clothing. To his right the victim, Walash, marched, her head drooping and swaying drunkenly side to side as he pulled her forward into the wheat where, Jackson knew, she would be butchered.

So, the killer was a man. Better, he had an MO. The drugging, the abduction, the messages, it was a pattern. A pattern which could be dissected, could be understood if he had the right pieces. Not only that, the bald head was distinctive. He could pull a suspect list from that. Jackson was getting ready to march back over to Vigari to share his findings when a third figure entered the shot. It was a woman, hair the color of dried straw, with waspish hips and black bag at her side. She followed the man and the victim into the field, pausing just as she reached the edge of the wheat. She glanced over her shoulder.

Jackson’s heart leapt into his throat and he paused the video just before breaking into a sudden, frantic sprint. A moment later and he plunged into the wheat field, knocking stalks aside and tramping others underfoot. For a moment he thought he had missed the clearing but no sooner had he thought that when he came bursting out into it, nearly knocking Vigari over.

“What the hell!?” Vigari barked, Hound already in hand and eyes scanning for whatever might be chasing Jackson. “Whose after you?”

“Nobody,” he said, his smile growing between heavy breaths. He held the tablet up for Vigari to see. On it the woman, Jessica Miles, sat frozen.

Jackson beamed, “He has an accomplice.”

---

The smell of blood wasn’t gone from her hands yet and Caroline was, at last, alive. It wasn’t like human blood. Less metallic, more earthy. Like the smell dirt makes right after a rain. Caroline held her fingers up close to her nose and breathed deep, remembering the way the Kelesh had tried to stifle her cries as Caroline carved the words, his words, into the creature’s back.

She had been scared when it started and only then. The first scream fixed that, sending an electric shiver down her spine that reminded her fireworks or orgasms. Then there had been the way the creature had shook and cried, begging for its life even when every word caused the wire at its throat to cut deeper. When the real cutting began, the circular saw biting into its belly, the creature’s screams had been choked out by that wire. As it died, the other girl, Jess, had died with it. Good riddance, Caroline thought. Jess had been weak. Jess had been small and pathetic, so sure she had made the smart choices.

He had reminded her that smart was the coward’s way of justifying the safe choice. He reminded her what it felt like to live, not just survive. He reminded her how to thrive and to fill her belly with warm meat. Not that she had eaten much. Kelesh meat was tough and it burned her throat but she had choked down a bite or two.

A noise elsewhere in the room drew her attention and she opened her eyes to see He had returned. He stood in the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets and eyes aglow in the gloom of the cramped chamber.

“Is it time again?” she asked, desperate for him to nod, to say yes. Caroline was alive. She needed to hunt, to kill.

He shook his head, “Not yet pretty lady, but soon.”

“How soon?” she asked, a desperate whine on the edge of her voice.

He crossed the room to her and knelt, taking her cheek in his cold palm. “Don’t you worry. Soon the real work is going to start and then the blood is going to flow. It’s going to rain down from heaven on high and choke out the screams of a thousand worlds. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. She thought about all the monsters with their beady eyes and strange, inhuman forms. She wondered what they would taste like.

“It sounds wonderful.”

---

Link to Part 9 - Miller

Link to Part 7 - Strike Two

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