D A R K D A Y
To all the terrors of the world outside – I hold a light.

Edward Prima

F O R E W O R D

Whenever a good man is murdered, we must ask ourselves, ‘why?’

Steam lifts off the rock, rising with the moisture of the forest below. A deep crack runs the full length of the cliff face separating the millennia with a reddish band of oxidized iron. Sitting snugly in the safety of this fault, rock-dwelling lichen unfurl the last of their arms to absorb the mists. Pores open, water condenses and the chill of the evening wears off until the air is dry.

Picon’s jail clutches desperately to the cliff with metal rods that strain to hold its heavy walls there. The pink rock sighs as the morning light seeks out its secret places. The day is warm already, wiping away the glistening edges of rock which unwisely overhang. The endless dripping that once tormented imprisoned minds still falls rhythmically from a crevice untouched by the world.

Many hundreds of feet underneath the jail, the Valley of the Gods converges in a dense hole of green. Below this, the valley floor is dug deeper by the famous River of Blood. Billions of bacteria live in a continuous feeding frenzy amongst the nutrients leaching from the plains above where the old rock and sand wither, unwillingly giving of their life. As a result the river is stained, concealing this world of punishing hunger below its current which progresses between the valley walls and ends by falling below the ground, hiding itself away under the earth.

The violent green of the valley – alien to a planet known for its deserts, squints as the sun rises enough to fully illuminate the cliffs. The jail weaves around one of the vertical rises, hanging between the two worlds, part of nowhere with a view to die for.

Silently, a flock of white birds fracture the sky. They clear the edge of the cliff and descend into the valley to retake their nests. Nothing speaks here; even the insects mute their calls in fear of the surrounds. Despite the beauty, there is something dark in the location of Picon’s Jail. Perhaps it is the way the prisoners can feel freedom through the walls or smell it on the rain as it shatters over the bars of their cells giving life to the walls. Moss spawns in the late summer heat when the excess blood runs, sculpting the walls like the river cuts the valley below. Something not quite natural marks the corner in one of these cells. With a bit of imagination, you can make out the inscription.

‘Why?’

Since its desertion, the stains on the walls of the jail have dried, fading with the passing of the sun. The moisture has been soaked hungrily back into the porous façade which screens everything we want most to forget. Rock is a poor custodian of human deeds. Oddly, it is fond of human thought and remarkably permanent in its plot to mock humanity with a question that stubbornly remains etched in its surface, immune to all forms of erosion. I have no doubt that the civilization we have built for ourselves will fall because of it one day.

This I am willing to give you my word on: the skies over the Twelve Colonies will crash as the waves do about the sand while our poor heads search the bleak emptiness of space for an answer. If there is any truth left, it is that our own extinction may come to pass but the question, and the monument it serves to human reason, will remain. A man found it worthy in his final hour, and with many more breaths than he, we might ponder it just as stubbornly as the rock but find no answer. What is important is the addressing of such a question. In the interest of whatever empathy we may have for another human soul, my colleagues and I have turned to this unforgiving question, and in turn ask it of you.

Today is the fifteenth anniversary marking the disappearance of the Eighteenth President of The Colonies, Paul Stravos. We cannot say with any certainty whether he is alive, buried from sight or walking amongst us. Despite the lack of facts, we have been left with rumours – smears of truth that, from time to time, drip off the hands of the Caprican government. From the little we have, a shaky truth emerges, forcing us to stumble into the ever darkening world of those last few weeks.

The Colonies have long ago come to terms with the loss of their President – what renews the buzz at this time every year is the mystery itself. I am here to tell you one truth about your lives; you live with a government that is willing to kill to protect its secrets. More than that, they will kill these secrets to protect their lies.

I must confess that the creatures in this story are at best, shadows. Its plot is primly one of whispers passed between those who would listen. However, the truth it contains seeps from these deceitful fabrications to emerge onto the page like the sweet nectar of the gods pooling into the glasses of politicians, intoxicating and pure.

D E C E I T

CAPRICA

Present day

A dull crack preceded the inevitable sound of glass splintering. The boy watched, his shoulders tensing as the pieces hit the veranda and his ball vanished from sight. Terrified of what the witch would do to him, he scampered through the hedge that divided their gardens, and back into the front yard of his house.

The boy stood there with both hands in his pockets, his olive features wide with surprise. Suddenly he found himself alone. The friends he had been playing happily with a moment before now hid out of reach. The boy’s father, Vince, could see them through the foliage. Four sets of eyes and a couple of hands. A cloud passed overhead obscuring the heat of the day and he noticed the wind shift toward the south.

The boy adopted an angelic façade, pointing to the house next door to swear on the life of his new bike that the window had broken on its own. He, of course, knew absolutely nothing about the Frisbee that had been discovered on the TV antenna earlier that day and to his knowledge, cats often developed a crew cut in the summer months…

Vince had to admire a child’s attempts at deceit. It was the one thing you never had to teach them. Lying was a product of instinct – raw and primal, one of the only things to survive the millennia intact.

He wanted to believe his seven year old’s green eyes, but detective Vince Moretti of the C.D.P. (Colonial Department of Protection) was not so easily fooled. You see, it was not what you claimed that mattered when constructing a bit of white; it was what you promised to forfeit. Generally speaking, the bigger the forfeit the more extreme the lie. He bent down and took his young man by the shoulder, ignoring the inevitable ‘but dad…’ The kid was caught and knew it. Now came the tricky bit.

Bret apologised to his father then glanced hastily over to the house next door. His complaining escalated as the inevitability of the situation dawned on him. He did not want to apologise to her. “No – she’s a witch!” he protested through Vince’s disapproving glare. “She cooks people and eats them.”

Vince fought to hide a grin, “Don’t be ridiculous, now go apologise.” His kid feigned a look of death at the sentence, possibly imagining the largest cliff in the universe stretching out to replace the lawn. Bret mentally clung to the edge, refusing to jump forward onto the suspiciously grass-like rocks.

“No.” The kid shook his head firmly, staring at the green expanse.

Parenting took longer than expected sometimes. The daddy bent down to rest his knees on the ground hearing them click unpleasantly. Gods, thought Vince, I’m only forty. “I’ll cook you in a minute. Now go.”

His kid traipsed off. Vince watched with a crooked smile only another parent could understand. His partially damaged skin stretched enough to bare his well aligned teeth. He was a Caprican man, born and raised a couple of hundred metrics west of Delphi. The sun was hot out there, especially if you were determined to spend all thirteen hours standing around in it.

The poor woman next door, who was probably still wondering why there was a Pyramid-ball sized hole in her window, did not really eat people. She was head priest at their local temple and in his son’s defense, a bit scary looking – especially for the kids. They recoiled at her mass of dark, plaited hair and the statues littered around her house. Hell, Vince did not like them either. It unsettled him to know that he had old grave statues lurking about the lawn.

She gave him one last year for Mars Day and now it sat next to their sprinkler at the corner of the garden amongst the moonflowers. His ex-wife told him to get rid of it on multiple occasions, but some childish part of his conscience was frightened the gods would punish him if he did.

He could see it now, a heavy flower leaning over its twisted body – glistening form this morning’s watering. Staring at him. He stared back, refusing to be afraid of a misshapen piece of metal.

His son crossed the lawn and climbed the steps of the woman’s house while his friends that had racked off earlier, peered through the succulent hedge. Vince watched for a while then retreated inside, away from the midday heat, to call his insurance company. Sadly, he doubted that his elaborate policy covered offspring and their spineless friends.

He was not an accident prone man just, “A man of little luck,” he assured the old man on the phone, who happened to have a screen displaying all of Vince’s previous incidents. Vince backtracked, quickly bluffing his way through several unfortunate events: the time he crashed his car into the house, the time he shot his stereo – twice, and that other time when the plumber did not show and the wife was screaming bloody murder so he had a go himself. He was not to know the ceiling would cave after a bit of water. The list went on and eventually the insurance guy said he would have to check the records and get back to him. Worth a try anyway, VInce thought, putting the phone down and stealing a look at the clock on the oven. It flashed the same error message as it had the hour before. He sighed. Maybe he should call the electrician. He had never been any good with anything that had the potential to have a pulse.

Later that afternoon, Vince’s dreary desk job down at the 86^th precinct lapsed back into its addiction to hard core amphetamines. By the time Tess got to her ex-husband’s house, Bret was playing with the TV and Vince’s glass of Ambrosia lay abandoned on the coffee table. She picked it up and finished it. The house was as she had left it. Tess doubted that it had anything to do with Vince being sentimental. He never did have the time for anything other than work.

“Same old Vince.” she sighed, filling his chair. It smelt of him and without realising it, she had soon curled up within its safe hold and fallen asleep.

* * *

It was a couple of hours before the afternoon contemplated sunset. The President was roaming quietly around his office, admiring the administration’s collection of L’Mark when the phone rang. He picked it up and listened for a while, unable to get a word in.

“Frak, Jim,” he interrupted, “I know what I said, so you don’t have to repeat it every frakking second.” The President of the Colonies resisted the urge to slam the plastic phone on the desk as his Minister for Immigration berated him over his comments at yesterday’s Quorum meeting. “I know, I – look,” he said irritably, fast losing interest, “just tell them to forget the whole damn thing – you don’t think so? Then do what I hired you to do!” A frantic rebut about ‘being elected not hired’ was audible as the phone hung itself up rather violently. Jim would fix it. The President was sure he only called to complain about ‘Them’ these days, not because he had an actual problem.

President Paul Stravos stared at the phone in disgust, wondering what on Kobol had pissed the Quorum off this time. It was not his comments earlier; they were just an excuse. Something else had their collective undergarments tangled and he did not like it. It meant more hassle for him when he introduced his legislation tomorrow.

In any case, it was after five and he had a few hours before the press conference. Hours that he was determined to spend not dwelling on the intricacies of Quorum P.M.S. The President took a pile of staff evaluations off the desk and buzzed for his secretary.

The usually placid Virgon woman entered without knocking. Her solid figure approached the couch that he stood behind, flipping through a couple of folders. She did not speak – that is what he would remember most about this scene when it played back for the thousandth time in his head.

Paul did not look away when her generously deep brown eyes glistened or when his security detail entered from several of the doors in his office and simultaneously pushed past her before she could speak. Time stopped except for the red and yellow of the Presidential flag, draped over the wall behind the desk, which spilt in – staining the peripheries of his vision. It dripped like blood down a wall, first in droplets but then – then the curdled mass followed collapsing over itself as gravity tugged it further downward. Its dripping was louder than the men swearing and panting in his office. Louder than the thumping of his own heart.

The branches outside the window scratched the pane with a passing gust of wind, pulling the storm outside forward. In a few hours it would arrive over Caprica City and prod the buildings with surges of lightening, silhouetting their oblique figures onto the mountain range behind. He had watched it as a child and already felt the distant thunder pound through him. His Head of Security, Matthew Lenard, entered the office at a run. After that, the President remembered the papers in his hands. Paul moved his thumb over their texture, the thin sheets sliding until they fell and scattered in a chaotic pattern, forgotten on the floor.

“Mr. President,” Matt’s breath wrenched in his throat while he fought to stop his forward momentum. Sweat poured down over his closely shaven head and the gun in his belt perched uncovered where his jacket opened, caught under his arm. “The First Lady is dead.”

* * *

“You look like shit.”

Vince dripped all over the Presidential foyer, a puddle quickly forming from the waterfalls at the base of his trousers. He pried himself free of the plastic poncho and thrust his umbrella into the hallway where one of the people swarming there took it. “Thanks Matt,” he replied, shaking his hair until it bounced up, sticking out in damp spikes at odd angles, “it’s good to know old friends are still honest.”

The Head of Security handed Vince a dry jacket which he took, stripping off his own soaked garment. “It’s a bit big but it will have to do.” Vince stretched his arms out to prove Matt’s point – his hands hidden underneath the heavy, fine wool sleeves, “I guess you’re just smaller than I remember…” Matt ducked as Vince took a swipe at the back of his head. They had been in the room together three minutes and it was already like twenty years ago.

“The President’s waiting for you,” said Matt more seriously when a woman in tears pushed past them and threw the double wooden doors of Parliament House open. Wind and rain forced themselves inside the hallway. Leaves rode the currents of air and the darkness outside flashed once, ripped apart by a jagged river of light, before the doors slammed closed.

Matt led Vince through several hallways. Vince had seen this place on TV – those movies and shows where people ran down the corridors with terrorists on the line or aliens inside the building, but they must have been shot on sets because the real deal was beautiful despite the drapes having been pulled shut. As they walked, he noticed that the carpet runners change when they passed into different sections of the building with each pattern mimicking one of the colony’s emblems. At the moment they were walking all over the bull of Tauron. The background was a deep blue that accentuated the ivory horns of the repeated image. The eyes of the individual bulls were stitched with gold laced thread matching the gold inlaid on the floorboards beside. Walking anywhere in this building felt like an act of desecration and Vince subconsciously tried to catch a look at his shoes in one of the full length mirrors – examining them for evidence of mud.

“It’s a hell of a storm,” said Vince as they rounded another corridor and the floor became bright yellow with red fish embedded in pairs alternating their way up the hall in a tightly packed courtship pattern. Matt made a snark remark but did not shift his attention from the security details that hugged the walls in a heavily armed, ear piece enamoured design which was decidedly less beautiful than the sweeping runners. He made sure to nod at each one and they nodded back after a quick glance at the security tag hanging from his jacket. The Parliament Security knew Matt on sight, but tonight there were close on a hundred new faces slotted into Parliament’s walls. Given Matt was only promoted to Head of Security a couple of months ago, his face was not always familiar to them.

Vince tried to look serious and non-threatening as they continued to walk. He had never liked the general force – they were a trigger ready pack, raised to shoot and kill. Tonight their hands were curled around the butts of their semi-automatic weapons, just in case.

“Do they look tense, or is that normal?” Vince shoved his hands into the new coat pockets before withdrawing them again as he judged himself ‘suspicious’ upon passing another mirror. “I don’t envy you,” he continued when Matt nodded, “but then, you were always a team player.”

“Team leader,” he corrected. “You just didn’t like getting your sorry ass kicked around that’s all. It’s why you’re a detective, isn’t it? The lone warrior in the fight against crime and all that. No one can touch you. You’re just out there,” his hand ran upward over the air, “by yourself all the time. You and the Universe as I recall.”

Vince knew Matt was milking it and he probably deserved it. Though it was funny, Matt would have been a detective too – they had talked about it once. A long time ago now. They were out on a mission, middle of gods damn nowhere with the frakking rain belting their skin and Matt, turning to face him despite the chaos that surrounded them. Then he just said it. He never mentioned it again after that. The army promoted him to mission leader where he stayed through the third of Caprica’s civil incidents and then Vince lost track of him. They read about each other, glimpses in the Caprica Times – ‘young policeman infiltrates Caprican crime ring’, ‘military captain named service man of the year’ and so on. From time to time Vince thought about calling him, arranging a drink or something – but the time was never right. Maybe Matt thought about it too but when it came down to it, neither made the call. So here they were, twenty-two years later, acting as if today’s rain were back then and they were in the middle of the jungle pushing each other in the mud, howling.

Matt smiled at the last security guard. They entered the final hallway, wooden – carpet as vacant as the security. “You want to catch a drink when we’re done?”

Vince grinned, moving his hands back into his pockets, “Sure.”

* * *

They found the President slumped in a chair, hands threatening to slip from the almost empty glass of Ambrosia. The bottle and the silver tray that usually sat on the table at the side of the room had been moved to the smaller table beside him. Vince saw the stain on the vessel where the alcohol level had dropped swiftly, most likely within the last hour or so. The room was dark and the curtains behind the Presidential desk, drawn. A lamp next to the tray provided a reddish light through its shade making their black suits seem brown in the afterglow.

Moretti, not fond of this distortion, flicked the switch on the wall next to him. It felt clinical – the harsh white light that now invaded every space within the room. The President did not flinch, instead swirling his glass around, finishing it. Matt and Vince waited as he poured another from the crystal jug, eleven glasses Vince noticed. An odd number, eleven.

“A drink, officer?”

“Detective,” corrected Vince before nodding. He watched the President select another glass and fill it generously. Matt declined as he was on duty – so was Vince, but it was his own personal position that a man should never decline a drink. To the President’s credit, it was good Ambrosia.

The light softened as their eyes adjusted until it seemed quite reasonable. There was nowhere convenient to sit without venturing more than twenty paces, so Vince stood in front of the President sipping his drink. He detected the faintest spice on the air and soon after located the burnt out incense stick standing blackened in a bowl of sand on a small shelf above the fire place. Beside that was a statue, about the size of his index finger. Its metal figure was twisted and gnarled – protrusions which he assumed were arms reached upward while its legs tucked under it and its knees kissed the ground. Vince shuddered. It was a smaller version of the figures in his next door neighbour’s garden.

The President watched Moretti catalogue his possessions, “Are you religious Detective?”

Vince’s eyes lingered a moment longer on Athena, “No.”

“You would have liked my wife then. She wanted me to get rid of that.”

Vince did not blame her but was guilty of keeping worse. He knew the President was religious – the Quorum of Twelve had been major sponsors of his electoral campaign. Vince just was not sure how religious yet.

There was no doubt about the First Lady’s position though. He had heard her speak out against the Quorum last week at a function on Canceron. Vince remembered briefly wondering if that had been a problem, the First Lady off doing her own thing but they seemed to have worked out an arrangement, so each to their own. Politics gave him a headache anyway.

Paul Stravos set down his empty glass, took a lighter from his pocket and lit another incense stick. A different scent this time. It clashed a bit with the first but quickly filled the room and strangled the older. The woody smell reminded Vince of something, but he could not quite place it. Something you smelt once on holidays and then stuck with you, coaxing feelings rather than memories.

“I’m here to investigate the death of your wife, Mr. President.” Vince kept his tone apologetic. The President’s hand was holding onto the shelf. “I know this is probably the last –”

“It’s okay Mr. –”

“Moretti, Vince.” They shook hands, both with a firm, practiced action.

“Mr. Moretti, I’ll answer your questions now if you don’t mind, get this over with.” The President walked back over to his desk and sat behind it. Vince instinctively followed and took up one of the chairs resting in front. There had been a few people in this room today – officers, generals, politicians, friends… “Matt – would you?” He hinted at the door.

“Yes sir.” Matt left, closing the door behind him leaving the President and Vince alone in the great big office, slowly filling with gentle blue smoke.

* * *

“So,” Matt ordered another round from the waitress who smiled at them before disappearing back into the crowded bar, “what did the President have to say?”

They had managed to find themselves a suitably dark underground hang without much effort. The name was a little concerning though, ‘Apocalypse Now’ and the walls were hidden under folds of fabric. A fire burned in the corner, more of an insurance hazard than anything else, but if you insisted on filling the place with hundreds of candles a perfectly contained fire was not much of a worry. Matt almost chocked on the perfume heavy air, “What is it with you Capricans and your incense?” he muttered. “Anyway, what did he say?”

Vince turned his soggy coaster over, ignoring the black ink leeching out onto the plastic table. “Classified,” he replied, leaning back as the waitress returned with their next round. They were both quiet for a minute until Matt called his bluff. “Yeah, all right,” they both laughed, the alcohol happily settling in their stomachs, “what you’d expect, really. I went through the basics, he offered me another drink and then I listened. He talked for a while about Cris…”

“Cris?” Matt seemed surprised.

“That’s what he calls her, ‘Cris’. They take it from her last name. I thought it was odd too but whatever, you know?”

“I know. I’ve just never heard him call her Cris, only her friends when they came around.” Matt smiled sadly then attacked his third round, or was it his fourth? Vince was losing count. Starting behind had him at a disadvantage.

“I’ll have to interview you at some stage too, Head of Security and all.” Vince grinned, watching his friend spill a bit of liquid over the edges. “Not until you sober up though.”

“I’m not bloody drunk.”

Touchy. Matt’s mother was an alcoholic; she died back on Scorpion when they were all still kids. He hoped his friend had not followed her down that path at some time or another. The pressures of the force and the pull of sweet release, it was not worth losing everything for – there were more important things to die for than a night of nothing but the sound of your own soul beating in the darkness.

“Aw shit,” Vince’s head hit the table and he felt its sticky surface cling to his forehead. Speaking of souls, “Tess’s gonna kill me.” Tess the ex. She said she would mind Bret until six but had a date, so he had better be back, or all his girlfriends would find out about the kid and the evil ex. All he needed now were girlfriends. The clock he glanced at on his way to the table surface made it nine.

“Wife?”

“Ex,” he managed, head still rolling on the table.

“You never frakking change, do you? Still the same old Moretti.”

“Still the same old Matt.”

“You’re three days older than me, so don’t go calling me old.” He picked up his glass and took a swig.

“Two days, sixteen hours and thirty-two minutes actually.”

“Yeah – old.” Matt grinned drunkenly, failing to notice the coaster stuck to his glass as he waved it around.

Vince left a pile of money on the table and stumbled out of the bar.

* * *

He found his ex-sister-in-law curled up on the couch and a note from Tess on the fridge.

‘Don’t know if you’ve eaten. Leftovers are in the oven. Adri’s here – send Bret to bed if he’s snuck back down again. Love, Tess.’

So it was true, you could not ‘unmarry’ each other. Vince checked on Bret. He had not snuck anywhere because he had rigged the old TV in his room to play games. The kid was already taking after his mother and Vince was okay with that. Better her than him. When he came back down, Adri stirred. He thanked her for minding his first born on short notice. She said it was fine and that they should come over for the holidays – he said ‘maybe’ and she left. Holiday’s already? Where had the frakking year gone?

“Where it always goes,” he answered himself and made for bed. The newspapers would have the story by tomorrow morning, ‘First Lady Murdered!’ So much for taking leave early this year.

The rain outside fell heavier now, pouring off the gutters – probably flooding his pristine lawn. Vince was too drunk to care. He mused a few more newspaper headlines that got more exciting as his blood alcohol level rose and then fell into a sound sleep.

* * *

He particularly liked ‘Blood in Parliament’ on the cover of the Morning Star. Vince got a mention in that article, but that had nothing to do with his preference of course. None of the press actually knew what had happened yesterday afternoon just after three and most were incorrect on the particulars of the crime. Location spanned planets, but full credit to them. The House of Parliament released a confirmation of the First Lady, Colette Procris’s death and the reporters were left to fill in the rest with their amply overactive imaginations. They wrote about everything – knives, guns, strangulations, beating, rape in one article, but the real scene, the actual murder – was more brutal than their fantasies.

M I D A S

CAPRICA

Present day

He noticed the lighting in her room created a weak, yellowish milieu without the numerous table lamps that she liked to have alight in the evenings. The brightest lamp was broken. Destroyed in fractures that could not be fully mended. It was the only object disturbed in the room. Therefore, it alone represented Colette’s final struggle. A woman’s life reduced to a broken lamp. Someone took a photograph of it – or was it just the lightening outside?

Unlike the other rooms of Parliament House, the curtains of the First Lady’s room had not been pulled shut to separate the fragile human creatures from the storm outside. Matt could hear the rain buffeting the glass panels, typical of this season. Each drop probed the surface for a way into the room. Matt tried to ignore it.

Outside, thunder preceded the heavy clouds and the sky broke intermittently. The friction it generated could be felt in the air as the storm sought out another point of release. The aftershocks of the storm’s climax spread through Matt’s body while he got up and walked over to the couch.

Cris’s hair had fallen in a lightly curled mass of black strands. Their colour was reminiscent of the incense sticks protruding from the ceramic bowl on the table beside. Black with an undercurrent of mahogany. In his time as Head of Security, he had noticed these bowls in most rooms of Parliament House. They reminded him of another time, an era that should have been put to sleep but was, instead, deliberately remembered with each spark of fire and plume of scented smoke. He had lived here for most of his life, yet he still did not understand why Capricans spent their time in the past. It was a quality of the universe he had never liked, the tightening grip of history on the present.

The lifeless weight of Colette’s hair upholstered the couch. It looked soft and had not lost its loveliness to death. Matt looked away, even in his memory he did not want to meet her glassy eyes which fixed themselves upon the room. Cris was so still that she reminded him of the old porcelain dolls his sister kept. Perhaps then, she could be rearranged and carefully set upon a shelf. Kept safe forever.

Without lifting his eyes too far, he saw that Cris was perfect. Even the gentle line around the curve of her mouth, where her smile marked its place, had been preserved. Her face, and all its beauty, drew one’s attention from the awkward angle in which her body fell.

One of her arms reached out over the couch, ending in outstretched fingers. A cushion sat short of their tips – would it have made any difference if she had reached it? The lower half of her body had slipped off the couch and now rested on the carpeted floor while her head tilted to one side, barely balanced on the seat of the couch and the edge of its arm. Vince knelt beside her, examining a shoe that was almost free of her stocking covered foot. A camera flashed once, twice until Matt perceived the room as dim. Vince waved the woman with the camera off with a firm, “Enough.”

Cris had been wearing a purple blouse that day, one with gentle frills on its cuffs. Her shoes matched with high, elegant heels that ended in metallic caps. Vince pointed to where the silk was torn around her neck and Matt went to reply.

As in dreams, his voice failed and shortly after the real world crept in. Everything faded except the memory of Cris. She would not fade. Not from memory, not from life. She was too stubborn.

Matt’s eyes opened and he found himself in the Temple room, pressing himself against the glass of the fourteenth floor, hoping that he might fall through it into the metropolis below. His palms slid up the window, following the slant and feeling it warm under their tips. His eyes closed again and the city noise hummed quietly. In a moment of silence, he thought he felt the building pulse.

* * *

It was still early.

Unwisely, Caprica allowed another day of chaos to slip over its curve. Pale orange and pink stretched over the bay and the water, a seething chameleon expanse, mimicked it. Surges of light caught the buildings along with the ships that drifted above them. They glistened, jewels in the crown of the new sky. A young Caprica City etched its way across the land. It was an intricate design of humanity, reaching for order in a universe that had none to offer.

Vince unclipped his seat belt as soon as the sign went off. From the window of his shuttle, he saw the city sprawl and the roof of Parliament diverge in different levels. In front was the parking bay. Several ships and shuttles aligned themselves on the concrete including the First Lady’s ship which stood alone to the left, surrounded by orange tape. According to the log, it had not been moved since her disembarkation yesterday.

The police had it marked as a crime scene. They had been crawling through it all night with their hands touching every part of it. Dust and brushes stained the paintwork and its glass windows revealed fingerprints to the morning light. Vince doubted much would come of the effort. Weeks his report said, to match the prints. He failed to see the point of the exercise. Even if they did manage to match every print, it would tell them nothing the passenger logs could not. The First Lady had not been murdered aboard the ship – only lived there. If the murderer happened to be in those logs then they were probably still a few floors below, walking down the hallways of Parliament, leaving their prints on the elevator doors or watching the sun rise over the water. Either way, Vince would catch them. He nearly always did.

“Detective,” a friendly young officer held out a cup of coffee and similarly coloured envelope. Vince stood up from his seat and ran his fingers through his hair. He was constantly paranoid that it was plastered flat to his scalp. His mother always told him to stop fussing. Vince always said it was beyond his control.

The morning air was cold at this height. Judging by the weight of the file, it contained the forensic photographs taken last night at the scene of the crime. It was amazing how fast things got done when the right people were puppeteering. Vince crossed the roof and ducked under the orange tape surrounding the ship. A forensic officer, clearly in need of a warm bed, emerged from the hull. The man waved Vince up.

“Nice sort of a morning, ay detective?” the man said when Vince reached the top of the stairs. Gods, thought Vince, not a Tauron. They had this irritating desire to talk Pyramid. “Bit warm though,” he continued, obviously noticing Vince’s aversion to the temperature, “prefer to be freezing me balls off personally.” Vince made a non-committal noise, knowing that it was usually better not to encourage small talk after a game.

They entered the main cabin of the ship from the passenger entrance. It was luxurious. The kind of place that made two tonnes of metal feel airy and sleek. The rest of the man’s team had scattered themselves around the room and did not notice them arrive. Vince watched a woman kneeling in front of one of the cream seats pull a fiber from the folds of leather. “Any luck?”

“Oh, we got plenty of stuff,” the forensic scientist replied, leading the way over to a cart full of plastic trays. Specimens threatened to spill over its edges. “Unfortunately, I doubt much of it’d be of any use. A shame really. These people,” he pointed to the room, “they’re the best I have. It’s a damn waste, them up here.”

“Who’s downstairs in the First Lady’s room?”

The slightly senior man glared, “Boys from the C.D.P. You know anything about that?”

Vince raised his hands innocently. “Nothing to do with me. I just got here.”

“I know,” he replied, “you’re late. They want you down there half an hour ago.”

You just – could not win… There was something inherently wrong about being late at six in the morning, but Vince did not argue. He muttered a ‘thanks’ then led the way out of the ship and continued on his own, back down the shuttle stairs to the officer still holding his coffee. Vince relieved him of it and asked where Colonel Lenard was. The officer said something about the Temple.

“Hey,” the forensic scientist called from the top of the stairs. Vince grimaced, turning his head slowly in response. “You see the match last night? Better luck next year Caprica, eh?” It was two nights ago and no he distinctly avoided the TV during that painful hour.

CANCERON

Seven days before the murder.

“As I said before,” the man, possibly in his late fifties, leant closer to the microphone mounted on the bench in front of his seat, “Aerelon has no comment on the allegation.” He was calm and firm. Not quite calculating. People in his position went to great lengths to ensure they never came off as anything resembling that.

“No comment?” Colette Procris rolled the words over her tongue, disgust tainting her tone. “Charges of illegally pursuing weapons technologies, which you have subsequently failed to share as directed under the Articles of Colonisation, and the more serious charge of conspiring to insight civil war have been levelled at your colony. Documents detailing both these activities have leaked from within the highest level of your own government. We have the sworn testimony of a scientist – from your labs, who says that he was directed to effectively break the law.” The Quorum member for Aerelon did not present any visible change to his exterior. No doubt he had been preparing for this confrontation for some time. Cris, undeterred, continued her line of questioning from the podium at the centre of the room, commonly referred to as, ‘The Floor’. “The piles I’ve seen of evidence to your colony’s crimes could fill this room, and you’re telling the Quorum that Aerelon has no comment?”

Some of the other Quorum members responded to the Aerelon representative’s smug expression with under-tongued remarks. Cris could not decide whether that was comforting or frightening.

He exchanged a meaningful look with Gemenon’s envoy. It was too quick for Colette to catch in a room well on its way to dissolving into a disorderly ruckus. Aerelon’s man left his seat this time, freeing the microphone from its holding and taking it in his right hand. “No comment.”

It seemed that politicians never tired of lies. They could be repeated from birth until death and still be delivered with that same air of confidence and credibility. Colette tired of politicians. She had married one, spent all day with them and had eventually become one. That was enough. She relinquished the floor.

There was no hope of progress in this meeting. Aerelon was not going to admit to anything in the public arena. Not with the other colonies watching and most definitely not on Canceron.

The whispers that had been building throughout the discussion continued to flood the room as she stepped down from the podium. They did not have to be particularly loud for her to hear their contents. Civil war. Everyone was thinking it. They could taste it, feared it.

It is a funny thing; the human race was inherently afraid of war. They filled their books with stories of the great conflict in the beginning between man and the Gods. Brutality – bloodshed. When life began, the fragile peace had trouble outlasting their will to die. The Gods gave in, warfare raged and the people fled to twelve new worlds. It was a thrilling fairytale. Except that they lost. We lost. That is why we will always be afraid.

These stories were then read to the children so that they might follow their parents in fear.

Cris had never been a fan of bedtime stories but her husband loved to re-tell his favourites when it suited his mood. ‘We were warned then,’ he would say, tilting his ever present glass of Ambrosia to the light, ‘this side of humanity is inevitable, written into our genetic code like imagination or sight. We must accept it – embrace it. That which we all feel, the urge to –’ Cris closed her eyes, hearing his words replay in her head as she left the room and its fighting occupants. She almost expected the towering wooden beams of the ceiling to metamorphose into figs and other ancient trees. Or the down lights to become cracks in the canopy. She imagined the squabbling mob in white robes sitting on the mossy rocks of Kobol and her husband’s voice prevailing over them. ‘The urge to kill.’

In ways she did not like to admit, he was right. Civil war had happened before and it would happen again, but unlike the Quorum, Cris did not want to accept it. The last thing she wanted was people dying for fruitless causes. It was abhorrent, infighting like savages over scraps – and for what?

Tensions had been rising across the planetary system for months now and the President was powerless to control the spread of fear. Now it seemed nothing could be done without the Quorum’s support. The Government and the people were forever locked in this silent war with only one constant. Their executioner, the Quorum, steadying an axe above both their heads.

The People’s Council were a few rooms away demanding a resolution which she could not give to them yet – only more excuses and a little less hope. The photographs of the Forum on Gemenon, hanging from the walls of the hallway, were supposed to comfort passers by. When Colette saw the sandstone pillars supporting the octagonal roof and the thirteen statues standing guard at its entrance, all she felt was inadequacy to its builders.

CAPRICA

Present day

“Matt, you around here?” Vince edged into the room.

The Temple Room was located on the top floor of Parliament House. Its exterior wall was a curve of glass, purpose built to take in the city sky line. In the centre of this structure was a large panel filled with an intricate stained glass design. It depicted the old star constellations around a circle that was also divided. Vince quickly counted the segments. Thirteen. These guys were traditionalists.

The rest of the room was a deep red. Curtains hung everywhere concealing the depth of the room. Somewhere behind and to the left was the inner temple area complete with an alter.

He spotted Matt leaning against the glass off to the far side of the room. “I was wondering where you got to.” Vince stood next to him and looked out over the bay. Some of the office buildings still had lights on in their windows, left over from the early hours of the day. Parliament House was not uncommonly tall, but its situation at the height of the rise in the land lifted it up above most of the other buildings. “We’re late you know.”

Matt hit his head gently on the glass, “I know.”

Vince had forgotten Matt’s part in all of this. He was the First Lady’s minder – the Head of Security for the President and this had happened under his watch. Vince knew what that felt like. “Come on. Show me this palace of yours…”

Matt straightened up slowly and managed to find a grin. He guessed it was somewhat of a palace. “Anywhere in particular you wish to go Detective?”

Vince handed Matt his jacket, “Deep down in the lioness’s den.”

The only place Matt did not want to see again, “Sure.”

CANCERON

Seven days before the murder.

They were loud and violent upon her return. Most members of the People’s Council had left their seats and crossed the carpet separating the two arcs of seating. Not bothering to whisper like the Quorum, these people were shouting and turned as a group with their volume teetering on the edge of a scream when they saw her slip back into the room. Matt stayed close behind the First Lady, his mind thinking about the gun at his hip and how long it would take him to reach it.

Colette closed the door behind her. Then she told them what she had to.

AERELON

Four hours and sixteen minutes until the fall.

Flames fought and grew beneath the crippled Raptor. The desert sand melted in the heat and started to flow instead of slide as the fire took hold of the ship nestled in the embankment. It was half buried, held in the dune like a captured insect. Its burnt metal softened enough to drip. Ash blew from the wreckage into the air and toward the city on the horizon. Smoke, enigmatically human, freed itself from the steel structure and forced its way upwards into a pillar. Fire climbing within leapt outward, sporadically breaking the deceptively fragile creation.

Aerelon’s capital peaked over the sand clogged ridge. Several of its towering buildings cleared the dune with slender figures extended skyward, baking in the sun. The offices and their inhabitants casually watched the building cloud of smoke. Destruction and death was little more than a passing curiosity as they waited for their coffee to boil or their appointments to confirm. By the time the canteens closed and people ran out of excuses to delay the inevitable start of work, the smoke had cleared and the desert panorama was as they remembered. Sweeping expanses of reddish sand and the unforgiving sky, cloudless and sublime.

W H I T E – F L O W E R S

CANCERON

Seven days before the murder

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Colette watched her Head of Security, Colonel Lenard, carefully as he put his head between his knees and breathed heavily. Sea sickness was one of those things. You either got it or you did not. This man, well, was unfortunate.

They had been on Canceron for almost a day after arriving in the early morning. She felt herself relaxing, the barely detectable motion of the waves underneath the city comforting her as it had when she was small. This planet was her first home. Colette had always believed that people formed a bond with their birth place. Some hated it their home, but Colette adored everything about Canceron. In her long absence, some things had changed, but not to the point that they were unrecognisable. The cities were crowded and the buildings taller. Even at this hour of the evening, there was so much light flooding the sky that she could barely see Aerelon wandering across the navy expanse. Colette fondly remembered lying in her small boat at night, watching the red dot creep along its imaginary track. Each night the same pattern, across the Pointing Stars and through the constellation of Pygmalion until, in the last hours of darkness, it vanished over the edge of her world.

Canceron was one of the great water planets. The closest thing to ‘land’ that it could claim were the small islands littered around the shallow poles. The water was warmer there, and the islands were low lying gardens of salt trees, swamp and reeds. Not suitable for building cities on, so the people of Canceron built giant floating barges and put cities on top of them. Their economy was solely one of export. They imported food for the whole population and purchased it with their immense wealth. Fulfilling the basic needs of the planet barely made a dent in their collective assets.

Colette’s father still owned one of the large oil rigs on the twenty-third latitude. It was a rich vein of fossil fuels mined by the giants of the oil industry. They say you could run the economy of the Colonies on the drills of those oil wells. Stop the pulse of the human race with a mislaid cargo of coal.

Many years ago, her father bought the small floating city of Crane with the money he gained from the sale of a large property of water. When they were not scanning the ocean bedrock for oil, the Procrises lived in the centre of town holding large dinner parties for potential buyers. It was an unusual balance of dirt and finery that her parents coped with eloquently. Colette though, preferred the metal frames of the oil rigs to the gowns and socializing. The loneliest parts of her childhood were spent sitting on wealthy porches with a glass of expensive champagne, watching the tides swell under the moons from a distance.

When Colette came of age, her father gave her half of the original sale of the property. He had kept if for her, all those years. She married soon after and invested the money in her husband’s political career. It bought the Presidency after seventeen years. She had everything young ladies dreamt of, but nothing the little Oiler’s girl wanted back when she was crawling around the black muck on daddy’s rig.

The Colonel continued to sit with his head bent over. In her time, she had seen enough tourists to know where this was going – and it was not any place pleasant. “You really don’t look good at all.”

Matt closed his eyes to avoid the ground lapping back and forth beneath him. Water made him nauseous. It was not so much that he could see water; it was that he knew it was there. Miles underneath him, beneath the cement and rubber, the city was floating. Rocking with the ocean. There is nowhere else to build your city on a water planet, only the water. The brochures said the cities were stable, firm as any solid soil, but Matt could feel the ground moving. The eighteenth story of this Colonial building was swaying gently with the ocean current and with it, the contents of his stomach.

“It’ll get better… At least, it should.” Colette sat opposite him in the visitor’s room. It was typically Canceronian in design. Pastel blues on the walls and a woven mat on the ground. The deep olive colour suggested it was from the cold waters, quite far away from where the city was currently drifting.

It was getting later in the evening and Matt’s condition was worsening. He guessed it was a mix of jet lag and motion sickness. He had never travelled far or often. When he was in the Service, they did mostly local jobs. The only war in which he had fought was three metrics short of his front door. Not much of an adventure, even he would admit that. Still, he never presumed that escorting the First Lady would entail travel to different systems and planets on a weekly, sometimes daily, schedule. He thought this job might mark a quiet time in his life. Instead, he learnt that it was exhausting being a politician’s bodyguard – and this politician certainly needed one.

“Not much of a sailor Colonel?” she poured him a glass of water from the jug. Matt groaned disapprovingly at her. She smiled devilishly. “Is there anything else I can get you – other than water?”

Matt hoped she never decided to take up nursing as a hobby. He did not want to hurt her feelings, but all her suggestions so far were not helpful. Even breaking his intent staring at the floor to reject her proposals was making it worse. “Afraid not ma’am,” he said, lifting his head again to respond to her, “I’m just not good at this sailing thing.”

“Believe me Colonel, if this were sailing, jumping off a train would be skydiving.” Colette drank the water she had poured for the Colonel.

“Skydiving I can handle.”

“All that motion… You wouldn’t get air sick?” she quipped. He smiled, for the first time in a while. “You should go to the roof and stand outside,” she continued. “It’s the only cure. Fresh air and a view of nothing but the sky. You’re eyes can’t focus on the movement and you forget you’re rocking.”

“First I’d have to get outside, and that involves moving. I can’t, in good conscience, follow through with a plan that involves moving.”

Colette set her drink down, leant back in the chair and crossed her legs. “Hmm,” she said, “tough patient.”

CAPRICA

Present day

Vince and Matt descended the few flights of stairs down to the First Lady’s room. There were more people in the building now and the tour groups were lining up at the front door, ready to nosy around the place. Vince had hoped they might stop running the public tours during the investigation, but someone in the chain of command thought it might be a good idea to keep public moral up.

Matt’s manner changed over their short walk together. Vince had seen a different person in the Temple room. It was not like Matt to be reclusive like that. Hiding in abandoned rooms and watching the sun rise was never his thing. Perhaps he had picked up the new personality trait in his long years of service. Some jobs did that, changed the fundamental basics of human behaviour.

“Morning James, Mike,” Matt took the lead as they entered the room, greeting members of the C.D.P. that he recognised, occasionally introducing Vince to them if he thought they were important enough.

Vince noticed that the First Lady’s body was gone now. Its absence made the scene a little easier to take. There was still evidence of her being there though. The dust cover on the arm of the couch was askew and the lamp was on the floor beside the rug.

There was another team of forensic scientists, scurrying around the place, taking and storing samples like mice before the rain. They weren’t as precise or methodical as the team on the shuttle. Their job was to get everything zip-locked and logged so that they could move to their next job. They had no sense of the art whatsoever.

“And this is Detective Vince Moretti,” Matt stepped aside to allow the black suited man to shake hands with Vince. Vince thought he looked vaguely familiar.

“Please,” said Vince as they shook, “it’s Vince.” The man nodded then disappeared back into the room. He asked Matt who he was.

“He’s my second in command. I just relieved him of his shift.”

“Ah,” said Vince, glancing around the room. He probably saw him last night along with the other goons. “I want to interview him too.” Matt said that it could be arranged for later in the day along with the other interviews Vince found himself booking in.

“You’re a popular man now Vince,” said Matt offhandedly, progressing through the room. “It wasn’t always so.”

“You heard about that?” They passed a few more security officers in suits.

Matt turned and gave Vince that look he used to give when they were kids. “Everyone heard about that Vince. You nearly died. It made excellent headlines.”

“Yeah, well he was the only bugger to get away and he had to put three bullets in me to do it.”

“No one doubts your ability, Vince. More vermin have seen the bars of Caprica’s cells under you than anyone can remember. You’ve even sent a few to Picon.”

“I hope you put that on my CV when you recommended me for the job.”

“This isn’t your job Vince, try and remember that.” Matt was doubtful that he was paying attention. Vince had that rebellious flicker in his eyes that he got when he had no intention of listening to anyone’s advice. “We’re a team here. Everybody is. There are no lone rangers anymore. They’re a thing of the past Vince. A breed being thinned by the herdsmen.”

“I’m still standing.”

“No you’re not, Vince. We’re still standing. You and the department you work for – the departments they work for. There’s a system of justice. Play along will you – I know it’s not in your nature, but just this once?” Vince brushed Matt off the same way he had the forensic scientist earlier. “I need to hear you say it, Vince,” said Matt sternly.

Vince felt like he was on the losing end of history, “Fine, but only because you asked. You’d be nothing but trouble if I said ‘no’”.

“Damn straight I would.” Matt patted Vince on the back and they walked around toward the door on the right hand side of the room. “Who’s first on your list of interviewees?”

“You are,” said Vince before asking the officer if it was okay if he touched the handle of the door. The officer shook his head and opened it for them. The door led out of the First Lady’s room and into the reception area. Margaret, a heavy set Virgon lady in her mid thirties, was busy answering phone calls at the desk. It was not a very large area. Vince would describe it as an anteroom to the President’s office which was through the opposite door. It was kind of sweet that the President kept the First Lady’s room so close to his, or maybe it was the other way around. The First Lady keeping an eye on her President. It was probably neither. Vince usually diagnosed himself as paranoid and this sort of thought pattern was precisely why. Sighing, he swept a hand through his hair.

“Not the President then?” asked Matt curiously, watching Vince look around the reception room. The receptionist looked up from a phone call and smiled. Matt wondered why Vince always had that effect on people.

“I thought they would have told you by now,” said Vince, returning her smile. “He’s away on business this afternoon. I got the memo this morning. He won’t be back until six.”

“Jason and I just switched. I’ve got to go to the desk and pick up his reports. You’ll excuse me?”

“Of course. See you at three then.” Vince watched Matt exit through the third door of the anteroom which presumably led out into the main corridor. From his pocket, Vince withdrew a miniature, lined notepad and wrote, ‘Receptionist – Margaret Dusha’ to remind himself to question her as well.

CANCERON

Seven days before the murder

“People live differently here,” said Matt, trying to distract attention away from the poor company he was being. “While I was waiting for you to disembark from your shuttle, I spoke to several people.” Colette gave an impressed, ‘oh really?’ look. Maybe it was just stereotyping on her part, but she had not expected the military type to act like a ‘real person’. “They spoke of the horizon, the fluid nature of the universe and the smell of salt on the morning air.” Matt grimaced, that sounded terrible. Why could he never think of anything intelligent to say when he was around important people? The First Lady was not smiling, but she was not glaring either. Matt hoped that was a good sign. He had seen her fierce side in the conferences today and did not want to be on the receiving end of her sharp tongue and cold glare.

Colette fought to hide a grin, “Yes, we do tend to speak a bit like that. Too long spent at sea, I think.”

“Not at all, it’s a nice change from politics.” He tried to smile again, even though he felt wretched.

“So Colonel. You don’t like politics, and you hate to travel. What strange fit of psychosis gave you the idea to take up the job?”

“You know, terrible hours – extraordinary pay.” Finally, thought Matt, a smile out of the woman.

This time he could not hide how sick he felt. Colette watched Matt’s tanned face go pale. Not wasting any time, she reached into her handbag and foraged for a while. Unzipping pouches, pushing items around until she withdrew a card of yellow pills. “Take two of these. You’re starting to make me feel queasy.”

Matt waved them off, “I shouldn’t ma’am,” he said, pausing to keep himself under control. “I’m on duty and I don’t know what kind of reaction I might have to -”

“You’re taking the tablets,” said Colette firmly. “What’s the point of a security detail if they’re sick as Troy’s dog?” She handed him the two pills and a glass of water, “I might need you if Aerelon’s representative ever decides to show.”

Matt took the pills. He doubted she would require his services tonight. The representative for Aerelon was several hours late already and they were a punctual people.

CAPRICA

Present day

The President returned to Parliament House in the early hours of the following morning. His business had detained him overnight in Delphi and that left little time to finish up at the office.

Paul Stravos asked Margaret to cancel his meetings for the remainder of the morning and re-schedule Detective Moretti for tomorrow afternoon. On his desk, he found the program for his wife’s funeral.

He hesitated upon seeing the white card. His grief strategy so far had been to not deal with it. For the last two days, Paul had pretended as if she were still alive. As a couple, they were used to separation. His work demanded it. Provided he stayed away from home, he could continue pretending. Today demanded the best of his talent. Not only would he have to lie publicly to the Colonies, he would have to lie to himself and say that everything was okay. That he would get through this. That the people had not lost one of the last true fighters for what was right, not just convenient.

Paul picked up the card and sat down, turning one of the photo frames on his desk toward him. A happy couple smiled back at him. All he could do was look blankly upon their faces.

* * *

They burnt white flowers in the streets. It was their way.

Beginning at morning, the people paused on the edge of the road. Before the barricades went up, chairs and small gatherings of people set up camps. These became small communities, growing alongside the funeral walk. After noon, people finished their work or left early to fill the spaces between the early arrivals, shuffling around until they caught sight of the road.

There were security personnel in the streets now. Soldiers and police standing in front of the hastily constructed grates, giving the iron framework the support it needed to hold back a crowd that would soon be leaning on the bars – stretching flowers and hands through the narrow gaps to be closer to the coffin.

The time for the procession to begin came and went. The heat of the day died off and the buildings started to shadow the streets with sweet, relieving darkness. People sat or talked, treating those beside them as new found neighbours. Children, too young to understand or care, played in the crowd. Street vendors sold white lilies and soulful music lulled sadly above the noise. The air became heavy, the sun set a little more and the polished pavement of the main street turned grey. Instead of dissipating, the crowd grew steadily. Office workers who thought they would miss the event, found themselves purchasing a flower and slotting into forgotten gaps or emerging on balconies over looking Colonial Parade.

Hours later, they felt the drums. A steady ‘thump, thump’ used the cement as a conduit to the people. The rhythm caused their ears to prick while their bodies fought the urge to sway. Next they heard the front drummers, beating the animal hides and the distant mourn of a flute. Footsteps marched a semi-quaver offbeat. The sound of wooden wheels strained under weight and new oil. The rap of hooves. The sudden silence of the crowd.

Over the rise, the procession ascended as the moon – on the edge of dusk.

Snare drums rolled over and the woodwind instruments swelled ahead of the black mares. Two beasts, bridled with silver – their manes braided and littered with petals. The animals laboured, breathing heavily under the strain. Their hooves kept pace without encouragement from their masters. This was their only duty, to haul and keep pace with the funeral march until such time as their reins broke and they heard the song of their own cry when their body lowered into the earth. Such a fate, to which we all feel tied.

The coffin was polished black, detailed with ivory. A mass of white flowers sagged over its sides as it rested on the antique cart behind the horses with the twelve members of the Quorum following. The Quorum’s crimson robes dragged on the ground while the gentle evening breeze kicked up their hems. The People’s Council trailed them, each member suited in white.

Then a stretch of bare concrete, littered with petals that had fallen from the offices above.

A people’s funeral.

The procession passed the Temple, defiantly refusing the towering pillars to continue onto the hill overlooking the bay. Lines of white flowers burned on the edge of the parkland, their fragile petals disappearing beneath the heavy smoke they exhaled, concealing the edge of the cliff. The water lay ahead, calm but fluid in the afternoon light. The horses came to rest.

‘Watch that we do not stumble where we tread.’

Paul ran his fingers along the inscription in the side of the coffin. Colette had said that same line to him often in the past few years. He had not understood her then. The perfumed smoke stuck in his eyes as the entire area disappeared in a cloud of white. The crowd’s sobs were muffled and, holding a cloth over his face, Colette’s father set her coffin alight. Soon it too danced gracefully over the edge of the cliff, its solid form now nothing but patterns in the breeze.

CANCERON

Seven days before the murder

“Colonel?” Colette returned from the washroom to find her ’security guard’ asleep in the chair. “Excuse me – Colonel?” She threw a cushion from her seat at him when he did not come to.

Matt felt something hit him. It was soft, non- threatening. Probably not worth addressing.

For someone who hated the water, he was sure doing a good impression of a comfortable insect wrapped tightly in its cocoon with absolutely no intention of entering the known universe.

* * *

He should have read the packet of the pills more closely. If he had he would have noticed the crucial warning on the side of the box that referred to, ‘not operating heavy machinery or attempting to guard official members of parliament’ written in unfairly tiny font.

The First Lady was nowhere to be found in the visitor’s quarters. Her things were gone and all that Matt could find to prove her existence was the faint scent of perfume in the air.

C A N C E R O N

CANCERON

Six days before the murder

A world of blue. Almost nothing but water and salt.

Canceron rolled lazily into ‘tomorrow’ as Colette exited the Parliament building and headed left, down toward edge of the floating city. The sky above was dark and the usually placid ocean winds nipped at her face and neck.

Yyima, the unofficial capital of Canceron, was all but deserted in the early morning. The people here worked long days and those that were still awake were far out at sea, finishing their catch ready to haul it in. Carpets of weed dried on the lines crisscrossing the windows between buildings. Rodents ducked into the cracks of the walls while the smell of fish overpowered the streets, sauntered down the laneways and wove itself into the mortar. Most inhabitants did everything they could to eradicate it, but Cris breathed it in and followed it toward the water where Aerelon’s representative waited.

* * *

Aerelon’s man had hired a private boat which was moored to the city’s new jetty. Cris walked along the metal boards which rose and fell with the current, searching for dock twenty-three. It was difficult to make out the numbers in the dark, but every now and then there was a lamp post clinging to the edge of the wharf, giving out just enough gas driven light to serve her purpose.

Eventually she found a typical, low range boat tied to post twenty-three. It was not much to look at – ‘pokey’ even and no more than three levels. She hesitated to set foot on such an unwieldy contraption outside the shallow waters. Tourists, they knew nothing about the sea.

A dim night light switched on as Cris approached the boat. She thought she heard someone stumble across the room inside. Minutes passed with only the soft lapping of the ocean on the dock to keep her company. Everything else was quiet. Out in the night sky, immense forces pulled planets and stars in a frenzied movement to which the universe set its chaotic tempo. She looked on at every graceful and violent step, but heard none of it.

This – meeting a complete stranger at night without security – was just another movement. As a creature of the universe, Colette had no choice but to follow where the rhythm led her, and at the moment she heard the sea and the sound of a door opening on the boat – so that’s where she followed.

The representative for Aerelon appeared in the semi-darkness. “Ms. Procris,” he said as he motioned for her to approach. Colette glanced to either side of her down the deserted jetty. Two tiny white moons on the horizon left pools of white distortion in the water. The city light obscured the night sky with a blurry beacon, and a few night lights shone weakly either side of her.

Colette defiantly stepped onto the boat.

CAPRICA

Present day

‘Please state your name for the record.’

‘Matthew Lenard.’

‘And rank?’

There’s a slight intake of breathe audible on the tape, ‘Colonel – Colonial Defence, Ground Unit Command.’

Vince’s voice does not hesitate; he has these questions wired into his brain. To him, it id like putting on another disk and listening to the playback, ‘What position do you currently hold?’

‘I am Head of Security for the President of the Colonies.’

‘Were you on duty yesterday between the hours of four and six?’

‘Yes,’ said Matt confidently. ‘My shift starts at six and finishes at nine.’

Vince paused the recording as his son, Bret, slid open the door to his office and yawned. “What are you doing dad?” he said sleepily, leaning on the doorframe.

“Just work,” Vince took off his earphones, “I thought you went to bed?”

“I did,” he said, his answer supported by his pyjamas, “but there’s someone at the door. They’ve been knocking for ages.” Bret managed to be annoyed even though he was half asleep. “Ages,” he repeated for effect.

“Okay.” Vince got up and wandered stiffly to the door, picking up his son. “You go back to bed and I’ll see who it is.”

“But I wanna see!” Vince closed the door to his office and carried Bret over to the base of the stairs, setting him down.

“I promise if it’s someone interesting, I’ll fetch you. Deal?” Plea bargains – as meaningless in domestic practice as they were in political theory.

Bret yawned again, apparently losing interest. He nodded and disappeared up the stairs. Vince waited until he heard the soft ‘click’ of the bedroom door close before crossing the room. Hastily, he opened the drawer of the nightstand. He pulled out the drawer completely and set it on the desk, then reached underneath where it had been and felt the underside of the table. His fingers gripped the butt of a pistol and pulled it free. Vince put the drawer back, slipped the weapon into the waistband of his pants and covered it with his loose shirt.

It was very late to have callers, and with big cases, it was not uncommon to have unwelcome guests for supper. The person at the door knocked again impatiently. “Who is it?” asked Vince, approaching the door.

“It’s me,” answered a familiar voice. “Open the door already, will you? It’s wet out here.” Vince opened the door and Matt ducked in out of the storm. “Summer,” he muttered darkly, stripping his jacket off. “When will it end?”

Matt progressed into the hallway while Vince closed the door and turned to face him. “So,” he started, a little unsure, “what brings you here?”

“I’ve been trying to call you all night – is your phone off?”

“No,” replied Vince defensively, pulling his phone from his pocket. Its screen failed to light up. A yellow glow on the side told him the battery was well and truly in the grave. “Not on purpose.” He put it away hastily. “What’s so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

Hiding at the top of the staircase, Bret re-appeared and stuck his head between the railings, watching his dad and the other man move through the foyer into the living room.

“It’s Troy Procris, Colette’s father.”

“What of him?” said Vince. He had seen Troy at the funeral yesterday. Nice bloke, a little strange but that could be said about a lot of people. He was a tall, sturdy sort of a man with dark hair and eyes, just like the First Lady.

“I detained him earlier this evening. Our security answered a call to the private quarters of Aerelon’s Quorum representative, Edward Naxos. He was staying over at Parliament House for the funeral. Troy Procris apparently tried to kill him.” Vince’s eyes widened, but Matt did not appear to be very surprised by the news. “He might yet succeed. We found them throwing each other around the apartment. Naxos wouldn’t have lasted much longer; he’s older than my father. Creepy guy, Naxos, I’m sure there are a lot of people hoping he won’t make it through the night.”

Matt and Vince sat down on a couple of the comfy armchairs. Vince winced and leant forward, reaching behind to extract the gun from his waistband.

“Paranoid as usual.”

“Careful,” corrected Vince. “I have a kid here, and the work I do attracts all sorts of miscellaneous danger.”

“I know,” said Matt, “I saw him crouched at the top of the staircase as I came in.” Both men sat quietly for a moment as boy-sized footsteps fled over the carpet quickly followed by the ‘click’ of a door latch. “Takes after you I see.”

Vince looked at Matt curiously, “Funny, I always thought he was more like her.”

Vince and the missus, it was one of those fantasies you knew must have existed but could never quite see reaching reality. “Vince, they need you in there, right away.”

Matt moved forward in his chair, donning a serious expression. “Well, it’ll have to wait until morning,” said Vince plainly. “I’ve got babysitting duties tonight and it’s too late to call anyone. How about I question Troy Procris first thing tomorrow?”

“Not good enough Vince. It’s not Troy I’m worried about.”

* * *

“Not long now,” said the doctor quietly to one of the nurses. Edward Naxos lay close to death. What could be seen of his ailing figure above the fresh linen was either bruised or fragile. A drip attached to his hand did its best to keep the pain at bay, but other than that, there was nothing much the hospital could do.

Detective Vince Moretti flashed his identification at the front desk and did the same to the two gentlemen with firearms at the door of Mr. Naxos’s private room. Vince was shocked by the man’s appearance as he moved toward the bed. He had seen Aerelon’s representative on TV many times, but this was the first time Vince recognised him as the frail old man he really was. His eyes lacked the fire that the people of the colonies had grown to fear over the past decades. Now, they were barely open – their pupils dilated under the weight of heavy lids.

Vince found a chair and sat beside the bed.

“Mr. Naxos?” There was no response from Edward except the steady ‘beep’ of the machine beside. “I am Detective Moretti, and I need to ask –”

“Colette – is that you?” Vince stopped. The old man opened his eyes, as if coming out of a trance. Suddenly, he was very much alive. Except it was not Vince he was seeing. It was Colette. “You have to listen, have to – have to tell them,” said Naxos urgently, reaching out to grab Vince’s arm. Vince offered no resistance, intrigued by the man’s turn. “I tried, for the sake of the colonies, but I could not get it. Promise me you’ll try.” Naxos pulled Vince closer to him, still seeing the First Lady. “You must promise.”

The heart monitor on the wall changed pace, fluctuating with bursts of speed. It triggered one of the alarms, and nurses appeared from nowhere. Naxos only held on tighter, tugging Vince closer. “I was weak and I’m sorry. I should have told them myself but I’m a coward,” the words sounded heavy in his throat, as if he were uttering them against his will. Honesty was not in his nature. “I feared fear and look where it’s got us. The letter is on its way but it’s not safe. They’re coming for it, Colette, and then –”

Naxos convulsed as one of the nurses threw herself at his chest, trying to keep him in the bed. Another tried to remove Vince, pleading with him to leave. “He’s dying!” they shouted to each other, struggling to keep him down.

“Then what?” prompted Vince, curious as hell. “What happens when they come?”

Naxos arched up in the bed. The nurses backed off in shock, mouths agape at the violence of his death. Questions formed and raced through Vince’s mind. He wanted to ask them all at once but the man in front of him had already drawn his last breath. Naxos turned to Vince and, with bronze rimmed eyes, whispered, “War.”

* * *

CANCERON

Six days before the murder

Colette sat opposite Edward Naxos in the small living room of the boat, a glass of scotch untouched on the table beside her. The room was dark with only one lamp in the back corner behind the representative. It silhouetted him, making it difficult for Colette to read, or even see his expression.

He was an old man, she noticed, but fierce. “Are you prepared to talk, or are we just going to continue sitting here in the dark?” That bordered on hostile. Colette made a note to correct that part of her interviewing technique.

Naxos was mildly amused by the First Lady, a woman he had never met on a one to one basis like this. She was so young and had much to learn about her home and her people. The people, she thought she loved them so much but wait until she knew what they did – what they planned to do, to each other.

Naxos wondered why it felt like war all the time. It did not matter who with, as long as it existed. Even now, in this room, it trickled through into the conversation without effort. He had missed it in a tragic way. But alas, life was short, and this conversation would only hasten it toward its end. “I want to talk about two colonies, Ms. Procris. I wonder,” he said, “are you familiar with the Rock and the Raindrop?”

Of course she was. How could you grow up on Canceron and not be? “Yes.”

“Then you know about the lonely solar system, farther away than any of the others, with two habitable planets orbiting close by one another.” Colette knew Naxos’s story. It was the tale of Aerelon and Canceron. All children heard the romanticised tale. “Two planets,” he continued, “one small, rocky and blessed with oxidized dunes which sweep its surface in tides of red and black and the other, a mighty drop of ocean, swung about like water in a bucket. They pretend to hate each other, these two beautiful worlds, but the truth is in the irony.” Naxos shifted in his seat. “They’re both so very lonely,” he said sadly, his voice a breathless whisper, “and all they have is the other. Alone in the dark.” He stopped for a moment, overcome with emotion.

Colette felt her own darkness thicken. She had not felt compassion for an Aerelonian before. It was distrust between the worlds, based on the ancient emotion of envy that filtered through into their respective cultures, and fed a lack of empathy. She felt compassion now, quite keenly as Naxos stared upward to stop the tears from slipping over the edges of his eyes. Life was a long battle, and this man knew that he was nearing its end but not its victory.

Naxos composed his aging features, and then continued. “Now, a different tale,” he said, “of another planet orbiting in a busy system. It is surrounded by the noise and chaos of its five siblings. As in primitive ecosystems, survival of the fittest governs them. They’re so physically close that they obsess over what the others are doing, thinking, conspiring. It becomes an art – deceit.

“This world is the most venerable of the six. Historically the oldest, the first to be settled by our ancestors thousands of years ago. Oh, you can see beautiful ruins there Ms. Procris, some of them buried under the forest canopy and others, restored and in use.”

“Gemenon,” she stated quietly. He was talking of the Great Forum.

Naxos smiled, “Can you guess, Ms. Procris, what it means to be old? It’s all right,” he said, when she did not respond. “I am old and you are not. It is good that you do not understand. I like to think of the little arrangement the colonies have between themselves as a game of Erebus Nyx.

“Gemenon is the Banker, first to arrive with an enormous stash of chips under the counter. The other colonies join later and seat themselves at the table. Gemenon deals them in.

“The game begins on an equal footing. Players lose and win marginal amounts. Deals are made and the Banker slips chips under the table to those who make acceptable offers. It continues on in a steady balance where money is exchanged with one constant; the Banker always holds all the cards.

“Two players start to win more than they lose. As everyone is playing against the Banker, nobody seems to care much about this, and the table remains content. The Banker, though, notices his pile of money start to diminish. Only slightly at first, but gradually these two players reduce to the Banker to a position where paying out the other players’ wins becomes impossible. The deals under the table reverse. The Banker calls in favours to stay in the game while the two dominant parties increase their lead.”

“The Rock and the Raindrop…” Colette said quietly to herself. “Two planets of immense wealth.”

“I think you mean new wealth. Anyway, the table becomes volatile. Players are cautious in placing bets because the Banker cannot pay them if they win. The two heavy weights start to pay their fellow players off when the Banker cannot. They loan money and gradually reduce the Banker’s role to mere card shuffling. These two big shots know that at some point they could find themselves in opposition with each other, but for the moment, they are stronger together than apart.

“The Banker has seen this situation before. In a normal game, the two players would be asked to move to another table, but in this case, there is no other table to go to and the next few moves of all or nothing bets will send the Bank bust. Power will pass to one of the two big players. But the Banker can’t just rejoin the game if he loses. He has not been playing like the others and has no chips with which to bet. He faces complete eviction from the table or a long suffering existence as an unwelcome spectator. By this stage, the Banker’s debts are enormous. Two options remain:

“One; perhaps the most obvious, is to leave. Pass over power in return for the cancellation of debts. The Banker will be broke, safe and dependant on whoever the new Banker is.

“Two; make use of a curious rule. Any player who leaves the table before the game is finished must forfeit their cash. All forfeited cash is claimed by the Bank. ‘Interesting’ notes the Banker. What he needs is a way for both big players to forfeit the game. The only players powerful enough to make that happen – are each other.”

“Force conflict,” said Colette, understanding. “Force Aerelon and Canceron into war to restore Gemenon.”

“Exactly,” Naxos smiled without mirth. “The Bank has a problem. Neither big player wants to go to war with the other because the stakes are too high. They’re intelligent. You have to be to get this far and they know that any challenge to each other could end in their demise. In military terms I believe it is called, Mutual Assured Destruction. If they’re going to risk it, the Banker is going to have to give them a good reason to do so.”

Colette smiled, “The Banker needs the other players. Gemenon needs the Colonies. Use them to catalyse the war.”

“Ms. Procris, I had no idea you were a card player.”

By his own admission, the colony of Aerelon was smart. Apparently sharper than Canceron because they were the only ones that saw Gemenon’s game for what it was. They were also the prey. Prey could always smell danger on the wind. “And what does Aerelon want?”

“To survive.”

CAPRICA

Present Day

A very unhappy ex-wife greeted Vince at his front door. Her arms were folded aggressively in front of a blue, V-necked jumper he used to like. “So who’s this ‘Matt’ and why is he sitting in the lounge room with my son?”

Vince ran a hand nervously through his hair.

* * *

“It’s very nice to finally meet you Mrs. Moretti.” Matt picked himself up from the floor where Bret had been forcing him to play ship racing games. In truth, Bret did not have to force him; Matt was a fan of video games himself.

“Trust me, it’s hasn’t been ‘Moretti’ for a while. You can call me Tess – who are you again? I’m not sure we’ve met.” That last bit was directed more at Vince than Matt. She was not an overly protective parent, Tess just liked to meet or at least know something about the people that looked after her child. A first name always helped.

“Ah – ” Vince stepped in between the two in case his ex decided to accidentally commit murder. “This is Matthew Lenard. He’s Head of Security for the President.”

Tess narrowed her eyes and observed Matt like a desert eagle to its insectile prey. As much as she wanted an excuse to pick a fight, she had to hand it to Vince, it was extremely difficult to be mad at him for leaving the President’s Head of Security in charge of their son. Not injuring either of them was her form of approval.

“Vince, a word?” Tess headed out into the kitchen, followed obediently by Vince. “Close the door.” He did so while she retrieved an assortment of vegetables from his fridge and began chopping them on the board in front of him. She must have bought those and put them there while he was out. Dammit, he had told her specifically not to shop for him. “Whatever it is you’re involved in, I don’t want Bret anywhere near it – do you understand me Vince?”

Vince watched the sharp knife slice a potato in four. Despite its tendency to bite, he missed her attitude toward life. She was never indecisive and always prepared to fight for what she wanted. Tess was also extremely talented with a knife – but that is what you get for marrying a chef.

“Are you listening to me, because I’m serious this time!” Juice and seeds spilt onto the cutting board from a ripened tomato – she wiped the knife on a nearby cloth. “You can’t always keep your work and your home separate, not in your business. It follows you Vince; it’s a part of everything you do. That’s why you’re so damn good at it. It’s also the reason I can’t sleep at night and spend the rest of my time worrying about you,” she stopped mid-slice, “about Bret.”

Vince moved forward, “Tess – ” he stopped when she resumed cutting.

“He’s seven. Remember that when you’re making decisions that affect his life.”

“It’s all I think about.” Vince left the kitchen before they got into another of their famous arguments, a tactic he had picked up in their four years of marriage.

“Vince,” he slipped his head back inside the room. Tess had both hands on the bench for support. Her shoulders took most of her weight. She looked tired, they both did. “Don’t die,” she said quietly. “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t die.”

“I won’t die,” he replied. Vince closed the door after him, leaning against the wall until he heard her resume chopping.

* * *

‘A world of blue. Almost nothing but water and salt.

Violent storms gather strength, their expanding peaks pushing upward into the water laden atmosphere. Clouds swirl and pull tunnels of water into the sky and then drive them out over empty seas. The depth of the water changes its pace. In the shallows, it moves quickly over the sand beds. Currents and rips drag each other apart; schools of fish catch and alight the morning tides to rejoin the deep water highways. Sunfish bask the flats. Their silver bodies sprawl. Wild children use them as rafts during play time; sitting on their backs they run dark fingers over the fish’s scales. The Sunfish is a lonely spirit of the world, protected because of its ugliness. No creature will touch its flesh.

In the deeper water, life grows large. Whales sing to each other through the clouds of plankton and mate in the moonlight of the clear season when the sky is finally free of the thunder clouds.

The waters warm and the algae bloom. They are underwater smoke clouds. Green plumes that erupt toward the surface then spread to avoid the tension of the water. Growths, larger than the islands, fill the oceans with spawn. These floating ecosystems are unstable and die for unknown reasons. Their green becomes brown and their form – waterlogged. Soon after, the mass sinks to the bottom of the ocean, joining the carpet of dead organisms that has built for millennia. In time, there will be oil and coal to mine from the lifeless mass. A renewable source of energy. Self perpetuating wealth on Canceron’s waves.’

Matt closed ‘On Canceron’s Waves’, placing the gift on his desk. His office was bare, probably because he did not spend enough time in it. He had not gone to any effort to make it homey, except for the small vase of dried flowers by phone. This place had been his for eleven weeks, and now he did not see the point of putting any effort into something as pointless as aesthetics. With any luck, this would all be someone else’s problem shortly.

S H A T T E R
Chapter Five

CAPRICA
Present Day

Matt did not go home that night. Balanced uncomfortably in his office chair, he spent the remainder of the evening dreaming of water.

This water was not the dramatic ocean, plastered over the back pages of trashy fortune magazines which Colonials spent their time obsessing over. It was always the same thing with them – the endless writhing struggle symbolized by the waves crashing on the immovable shore. It was a prophetic dream of white foam and shattered fragments of shells creating a vision littered with insurmountable, yet unimportant death. Strange, thought Matt imagining what it would feel like to lounge on one of those beaches, how such a history of violence could become the basis of peaceful thoughts. How easily we were lured by a gentle breeze and distracted by the sharp contrast of the dazzling ocean and its white arc. It was a grand scene.

Matt’s was bleak. He saw a shallow pool of water half hidden on Canceron’s Parliament roof.

In his dream, it was evening, and Matt stood on the concrete alone. Above, the Universe’s billion eyes peered down from their baffling, sky born patterns.

The pool was dark, failing to collect the abundant starlight in its unnaturally still water. He positioned himself at its edge, bending down. His reflection appeared almost at once on the atramentous landscape. It mimicked his actions – a slow tilt of the head, its mouth opening and closing with the flow of Matt’s breath. Observing the motions of his obedient twin confirmed a long held suspicion: his years on Caprica had made Matt so much older than before – empty, even. He had aged in ways only great sorrow could understand. It went beyond a deepening crease where the flesh remembered an expression – this age was yet to lay a mark on his skin. No doubt it would, when it was time.

Matt placed his hands either side of the puddle and lent forward. His reflection expanded, but did the puddle deepen or was it just the light? Almost subconsciously he encroached dangerously near to his reflection’s surface, a breath from breaking the tension of the water. He was looking for something, perhaps some evidence that he was still alive even if it was only in a reflection on a dark patch of water somewhere in his mind.

As he shifted his weight over his arms, he noticed that his reflection did not follow. Instead, it had become still like the water. Matt rocked from side to side, but his efforts were returned with suddenly accusing eyes.

The quietness of the night gave way to the ruckus of a busy room, filling Matt’s mind rather than his ears. Searching, he failed to see anything other than the pavement, the air, and the increasingly sinister pool of water.

His reflection grinned maliciously at Matt’s fruitless searching while the noise grew more invasive. He now recognised the distinct baritones of the Quorum and amongst this aural labyrinth of threats and worthless arguments, was her voice. It was soft but clear. Matt tried to listen, but the more he strained, the quieter the voice became. Soon its clarity faded, and eventually it was swallowed up by the roar of the Quorum.

The pool smiled.

Everything became vapour in the cold night air, even Matt’s thoughts. It had been his pool of fears, and though he wished he could see Cris’s image in its dark waters, he knew that if he did, all he would see was her broken, lifeless body.

Matt jerked awake. The storm outside had subsided and the air was no longer black.

* * *

Vince listened to his interview recordings well into the morning. The more he listened, the more he thought himself perfectly suited to the political career. The creatures he had met at Parliament were among the most isolistic he had ever interviewed. Talk about herding cats. They scratched, slept, cried and stalked off – tails-in-air. More interestingly, each person, from cleaner to President sat opposite him and lied with varying degrees of success. They lied so profusely that it made it impossible to tell who, if any actually told the truth because he had nothing with which to compare their stories.

Vince could not explain it. He had been left with a tangled mish-mash of events that were mutually exclusive. People screwed up other people’s alibis and placed themselves in multiple locations at once. The web of dishonesty was so thick that Vince had no other choice but to assume that they were all lying about separate acts, most of which undoubtedly bore no relevance to the murder of Colette Procris.

To combat this utter disaster, Vince set about creating lists. One for those who lied, but were not important to the case – another for those who lied but were potentially interesting, and a third, considerably smaller category, for those select individuals who could conceivably have told the truth.

Using this system, Vince had made headway. In the many hours spent under the harsh light of his office lamp, he had nailed down a string of office affairs and, a fact that he was currently beaming with pride over; he had discovered the weasel who had been leaking information to the press on a daily basis. Small victories.

More concerning though, was the growing list of liars who had no immediate or trivial excuse. It was not their manner, nor the content of their declarations that betrayed them. It was the memory of their faces; Vince could still see them, rigid and focused or giving way to tears. They were all dark, somehow. Even Matt, an old friend he let care for his child, did not overwhelm him with the greatest sense of trust. He had shuffled him and the President back and forward between lists, finally settling them both in the, ‘most likely telling the truth’ pile for the remainder of the evening.

“And how long have you known the First Lady?”

Matt replies almost before Vince finishes reading the question. “Just over eleven weeks. Though of course, I’d known of her before then.”

“How well would you say you knew her?”

There is a pause of silence on the tape. “I don’t think anyone could have known her,” Matt said honestly, “that’s how Cris liked it.”

Vince had never changed his opinion about that line. It felt like the only whisper of truth amongst the thickening crowd of lies. It was worth listening to twice.

Vince fast forwarded through the rest of Matt’s interview, stopping when he heard one of the Quorum members engaging on an extended dialogue about the pressures of power. Vince listened for a while but the over indulgent passage appeared to bare little relevance to the case. It sounded as if the man was actually enjoying being questioned. Vince took out his marker pen and drew a red arrow next to the Member for Gemenon, moving him out of the sinister category. Not quite the murder suspect he had in mind.

The front of the player fell open and Vince reversed the disk. The tape ground through a couple minutes of static before the President’s interview began.

CANCERON
Six days before the murder

In the absence of a much loved star, light crawled around to explore the dark side of Canceron’s globe. It scaled the ceiling of its hemisphere, transforming the evening ink into pale steel. The ocean barely raised a curl of break water against the city edge. These few hours that separated the days, lagged to motionless. The sails of the water ships far below fell against their heavy masts and a silence, real enough to hold the world, stilled it.

A weary First Lady crossed the roof of the city building and climbed the steps of her shuttle. Her presently unwanted security guard wove in and around her, attempting to catch her attention with a repeated, ‘Ms. Procris’. Instead of responding, she held her coat tighter in a defensive manner, anxious to escape the cold.

Colette guessed Matt’s mood would be as unpleasant as her deception. She was not sorry… The life she chose demanded a lot from her ethical patience, and even more from those that chose to work around her. This time her conscience rebelled a little less strongly as it did every time. Eventually, she presumed she would stop caring about the means to secure the future of the Colonies. Until then, she let her stomach constrict and her stable migraine worsen – a small price for a step toward understanding the tension which was in turn, a step toward peace. Not that she ever truly believed it could be achieved. She doubted there was a soul left that at their most honest moment, believed peace possible.

In climbing the steps, she cast her eye out over the roof and saw that it was marked with shallow lakes of dark water. Each revealed the otherwise invisible imperfections of the pavement. A sea breeze rippled one of them. The grey morning drifted a shade closer to sunrise and a flock of gulls made their ghostly motion to a day of harvest on the water.

Colette purposely overlooked the Colonel’s hostile manner, easily evading his efforts to block her passage. She turned away from the world outside and vanished into her shuttle, leaving Matt standing alone in the morning.

He was not put off by her elusiveness, and proceeded to pursue her into the craft. “I survived your magic pills,” he started angrily as they moved through the lounge area, “to be rewarded by an empty room.” Both of them ignored the pilot, sound asleep in one of the leather seats. He snored quietly with his tie loosened and the remainder of his uniform comfortably arranged to serve as extra padding. Colette did not respond to the Colonel, instead she threw her bag onto a nearby seat and took her fog-dampened coat off. “What is a security guard to think when someone as important as the First Lady goes missing during the night in times such as these? You might as well be the President – you share assassination attempts and the ability to act with unparalleled stupidity.” Matt paused at the entrance to her quarters. Unable to stop his mouth from endangering his future with the Presidency, he made a weak attempt to put distance between himself and the First Lady.

She was furious on so many emotional levels that her husband’s body guard showing concern for her whereabouts equated to a mosquito trying to suck a little attention from a tired and irritable lioness. Colette had bigger things to hunt, all of which could wait until after a hot shower. She locked eyes with the Colonel in warning, hoping to scare him off before she entered her room.

Failing to maintain his distance, Matt followed, continuing with the monologue he had been expanding on for the better half of the morning. “Being drugged narrowed down the possibilities.”

She wondered how long it had taken the Head of Security to discover he had been outsmarted by a female politician. As he continued aggressively, she started picking up on the flaws in his speech – an old habit she could not shake since fifth grade debating. She noted that his tone was over practiced, the result of running something through your head too many times. The best arguments were spontaneous, the most brilliant – unplanned.

The metaphorical bite itched as her black suited mosquito buzzed annoyingly toward the background of her mind. Desperate to make it go away, she took a swat at it. “Do you still feel queasy?” she snapped accusingly. “No? Then it worked, didn’t it.” Colette crossed the room and headed toward the bathroom.

Matt reached over the door frame to keep her in the room, “That’s because I was unconscious.”

“Kindly move.”

“No.” Matt lowered his arm to prevent her from ducking under it, “You are not leaving this room until you tell me what happened last night.”

Matt instantly found out what it was like to be her enemy in the public forum. Something snapped. He was not sure if he had succeeded in wearing down her patience or whether she had run out of ambivalence toward him.

Her body language disguised her emotions from a distance, but they flowed unchecked in her eyes. Whatever raced through her mind streamed into his; Matt was inexplicably afraid, enraged, lost, anxious and a thousand other things he did not understand how to feel. Her emotions overpowered his, when she looked away, it ended.

His mother sat on the step of his childhood house while his father, older than he remembered him, emptied stale Ambrosia into the sink. Matt stood on Caprica for the first time and saw a short, brown eyed kid catching skinks on the wall of the airport. A new set of stars moved steadily overhead. He huddled in a tin cubby house with the skink boy while lightening ripped the summer sky apart. A down pour soaked him for days in the jungle with the sound of sporadic gunfire shattering the old Cydorwood trees. His own gun brushed lightly under his chin. Someone died and darkness blackened the memory of their face. The halls of Parliament House emerged out of the dark to curve gracefully overhead with their incense curling into the air and over the leather upholstery. The quiet secretary ignored him as he waited for the President to appear for the first time. A woman with fiercely black hair glanced at him on her way down one of Parliament’s hallways. He worried about where she was one morning on a foreign planet.

Memories from here and there filled the hole Colette had gouged so viciously in him during those few seconds. He was furious with her for making him look like a fool, but he would be lying if that were the reason he was so upset by her deceit.

Matt watched the First Lady. Her mascara had dried into powder and fallen off her eyelashes, accumulating on the soft skin of her cheeks. Her hair was tied back roughly, like it had been re-done several times and her perfume was gone. Now she smelt faintly of fish, the sea and cheap scotch. “I waited for you,” he said finally, this time with a voice free of accusation.

“You were asleep; I didn’t think you’d miss me.”

“This isn’t about me,” he muttered defensively under his breath. “You ran off in the middle of the night without telling anyone where you going or who you were meeting with. We’re on the brink of civil war; a thousand people want you dead or know someone with enough money to have a go. I presume it was that Member for Aerelon, he’s the only reason you’d risk so much.”

“I wish the Quorum would admit to civil war as effortlessly as you appear to.” Colette stopped herself; why were they even having this discussion? She was about to talk highly sensitive politics with a person she barely knew. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he wouldn’t have come unless – ”

“Unless you did something incredibly dangerous and stupid.” That was the final step over the mark. He felt it the moment the words left his mouth and screamed right back at him through her face. She would hate him forever. Matt felt sure of it. Beads of sweat started to form on his bare scalp. The weather here was so humid; Matt did not see how she could bare it, wrapped up in her coats and blouses.

Colette moved away from him. He had no right to care so much about what she did. The last Head of Security trusted her, turned a blind eye when she needed him to. He was a friend. “We both chose dangerous lives Colonel. Your job is to protect me so that I can protect everyone else. But – ” she cut him off before he could interrupt with another ill-delivered speech, “for me to do my job, you can’t always do yours. I’m sorry.” She pushed past him and closed the door.

Colette was tired of all the frakking bullshit – of the constant surveillance. Mostly, she was tired of screaming at people she did not mean to and losing their trust because she did not have time to debrief them on her life or the reality of theirs.

Matt lingered in her room, listening as Colette ran the water for her shower. Her room aboard the shuttle looked as if she lived in it more often than her home at Parliament. The floor and bedside tables were littered with personal objects. A thick, hand woven carpet of deep sea weed lay across the floor which explained the slightly salty smell. Out the oval window Matt could see the edge of Yyima and Canceron’s ocean sweeping the horizon. The water was grey in the morning light – the heavy banks of fog having only just risen off their calm surface. Books and journals were packed tightly into the two bookcases either side of her door while on the rest of the wall hung several small, framed images. The jovial figures in these silk prints mocked him. Culture watching him, judging him always. Slowly Matt was coming to realise that this would be his heel. He quietly wondered when he would find his arrow.

* * *

Colette’s shuttle lifted gracefully off the rooftop. The city faded into a grey slur on the ocean surrounded by the dark specks of ships swarming near their hive. A reddish, orange line followed the curve of the world until the shuttle lifted high enough into the atmosphere to create its own sunrise over the planet.

Canceron fell away behind. The usual message about clearing the gravitational field of the planet and its moons before preparing to jump issued over the speaker. Cris freed herself from her seatbelt, and pulled her knees up, taking over the double window seat. She watched the stars appear and her favourite moon drift past before she began reading the document Naxos had given her earlier that morning.

‘In the interest of Colonial Security –’

Matt sat down opposite her. Colette quickly closed the document and tucked it into the seat pocket next to the window. “I’m sorry, about before,” he blurted out before his mind caught up. “I just – didn’t expect you to drug me…”

They sat quietly for a moment. Matt’s eyes had found an incredibly interesting square of carpet on the floor which he glanced upward from every now and then. Colette watched him carefully. His manner was honest enough. By honest, what she really meant was nervous. His hands fidgeted and he could barely look at her. It was hard to blame him. In all fairness, it had been her who took advantage of him when he was at his weakest. Men took that harder than women.

Finally, he seemed able to hold eye contact and relax enough to breathe. “You caught me a bit off guard, which hasn’t happened for a while. All those years in the army yet I was fooled by a politician.”

“We practice,” she said shamelessly, “I wouldn’t torture myself too much if I were you. It’s bound to happen again.” Colette grinned cheekily when Matt’s face dropped in a brief moment of terror.

What had possessed him to take her welfare under his responsibility? It would have been safer to have kids than give into the President’s plea to escort his wife.

CAPRICA
Present Day

Vince spent the next day at home to finish making notes on his interviews. There was one glaring absence from his list.

Edward Naxos.

Naxos was dead; a shame. He was possibly the only person who could have been of use to Vince in the investigation. Vince was beginning to suspect that the murder of the First Lady was no crime of passion, even without the surreal deathbed conversation he had with the old Quorum representative he could have figured that much out. There was a larger, more sinister goal to her death, he was sure of it.

To the average person, the tension had become very real between the individual Colonies in the past few years, enough to see old prejudices resurface in the streets. The media built it up only for the politicians to hall it back down. ‘It is simply a matter of poor funding for education’ they would say when a racial war erupted. ‘Oil prices continue to rise this week. In other news, the technology capital, Aerelon, announces that it will not allow Colonial Trust Inspectors inside their new laboratories. The President says it is up to the CT to negotiate a solution.’ The same stories every night, they are always playing in the background of the room. They tell us it is all unconnected but people know. As a collective they are labelled with many unkind things, but people can sense when their world is not right. Even the most subtle changes prick their acute senses and without realising, they prepare themselves for a war they can not see.

Not yet, but very soon. The brightest of warning beacons they say, burn in silence. Without public discussion, there is a strange kind of quiet. We notice fuel charges increase as shuttle services pass on the surcharge to the commuters and everyone spends a week moaning about Canceron’s monopoly on the market. Even that might be forgotten if more pressing issues like the latest Pyramid match take over the public interest. Still, these isolated instances become more common. Suddenly you wake up one day and wonder why you are not surprised to spend less than twelve cubits to cross the city. Consumer Watch Dogs declare it as a fact of life and we reluctantly accept.

Vince was waking up to this reality as he read some of Colette’s personal letters found in her shuttle. In one she wrote, ‘we do not yet realize the severity of what we are accepting. We no longer whisper about civil war, we discuss it over dinner in our living rooms, believing, as we have been told, that it is inevitable. Yet the politicians remain steadfast – ‘no comment’. I will not be one of them.’

Vince’s suspicions of Colette Procris’s murder led him in the direction of Parliament, home of the manipulative vague. Had Naxos still been alive, Vince might have played him as a suspect but now he had to ask himself, what infuriated Troy Procris enough to drive him to such a violent outburst? All Vince knew about him was that Troy was an unconfirmed figure of the underworld with real money in Caneronian oil. “Do you think Troy suspected Naxos of killing his daughter?” Vince asked aloud.

Matt was on the other end of the phone conversation, sitting in Vince’s house, minding his son in the late hours of the evening. “No.” Matt heard Vince swear quietly as he missed the turn off to the morgue. “You all right Vince?”

“Yeah, missed the turn. What makes you say that, surely that’s why Troy attacked him in the first place? Troy doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to go bruising up representatives of the Quorum for no reason.”

“He probably thought he had reason. Mix that in with the overwhelming rage of having his only daughter brutally murdered and I think you’ll find he had cause enough to attack him. I doubt he meant to kill him. That was probably an accident.”

“Somehow I don’t think he’ll be facing manslaughter charges.” Vince’s phone slipped off the charger in the car and he swore again, ducking down after it. “Damn phones!” He picked it up and nearly crashed into the curb.

Matt was stretched out on Vince’s sofa, watching Bret play ‘Assassination 3’ on mute. Bret died rather violently and scowled. Matt tapped him on the shoulder and silently reminded him to be quiet, giving him the ‘if he finds out you’re not in bed then I’m dead’ look. On the other end of the line, he heard something that sounded like a car swerving, “You still breathing?”

“No thanks to technology. What was that noise?”

“I’m tired – I yawned,” lied Matt.

“So,” continued Vince, too distracted to pick up on Matt’s lazy deception, “if Naxos didn’t kill Colette, and obviously her father didn’t do it – or maybe he did?”

“Next lousy hunch…”

“Okay, okay. Troy probably thought Naxos knew who did.”

Matt had no idea how much Troy knew about Cris and her life. It was more likely that he hired people to find out what was going on. It was no secret that she had been meeting Naxos in private shortly before her murder – Troy probably wanted to know why. “I don’t know Vince, but if you keep talking and driving, I’ll have to solve the case myself because you’ll be a useless meatball. All I know is that Naxos did not kill Colette.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

Matt paused, carefully choosing his words, “I’ll tell you when you come back.”

OPEN SPACE
Six days before the murder

Matt watched the First Lady intently. She had let him stay seated opposite her for the journey so far. Mostly, she had been transfixed by a blank covered document that looked slightly worn and over read. The woman stretched herself over the two chairs using the wall next to the window as a head rest. A couple of minutes ago that became uncomfortable so she took her jacket off and rolled it up into a head rest. Matt considered offering his instead when he was distracted by a section of her hair falling out of her clip. It unravelled slowly and twisted itself onto her shoulder. The First Lady did not notice and continued reading.

Realising he was staring at the President’s wife, Matt chose to engage himself in other, less satisfying entertainments – such as watching the planet fade into an ever smaller dot. If he craned his neck slightly, a lesser, orange object appeared. Aerelon.

His attention span for the scenery of space was far shorter than his ability to watch Colette Procris’s every movement. Most fascinating was the hurried pace of her eyes as they flew over the lines of text. Backwards and forwards, Matt was amazed her mind could process information that fast.

Something was wrong – two, dark eyes had met his own and began analysing him. Colette was no longer reading. Matt had been caught.

“What – what are you reading?” said Matt, attempting to provide a legitimate reason for his actions.

“A very interesting piece of non-fiction.” Colette paused, “What were you staring at?”

CAPRICA
Present day

“She was strangled.”

“Definitely?”

The coroner bent his gaze back down to the office table where he had an assortment of photographs from the post mortem displayed for Detective Vince Moretti’s benefit. Usually he would allow the detectives in to see the actual corpse, but Vince went weak at the knees at the sight of them. Predictably, Vince had delayed his visit until after the funeral.

“Her larynx was crushed. The skin around her throat is bruised in a manner that suggests she was attacked from the front, most likely by someone –”

Vince interrupted the doctor, picking up a particularly graphic photograph, examining it carefully so as not to catch a glimpse of the First Lady’s open eyes. “You mean, she knew her attacker?”

“That’s for you to decide. I can only tell you what happened, not what made it happen.” The doctor pointed to the pre-autopsy picture in Vince’s hand, “See, these bruises around her neck are a result of the act itself but this one, on the side of her right cheek, happened before. The rest of the markings on her skin were caused during the struggle or the fall afterward. None of which caused her death.”

“And the attacker?” Vince scanned over the awful images of the First Lady’s injuries.

“Well, as I was about to say before I was so impolitely interrupted –” Doctor Worth gave his long time friend an affable glare. “They were stronger than her. It takes a good deal of effort to strangle another person in this manner. Especially a feisty one like her.” Now it was Vince’s turn to sharpen his eyes in warning. “Not feisty?” queried the doctor innocently. “I’d be looking for a man, her height or taller. You could probably stretch it to an unusually large or strong woman.” Vince threw the photo back down on the desk, exhaling loudly, “I wish I could give you more, but I didn’t find anything on her that could help you.”

“That’s all right.” Vince retrieved his hat from a nearby chair and headed to the door. As he reached for the handle, his stomach dropped. He was forgetting something, something important. Vince ran a hand over his hair, making sure the thicket was sitting a reasonable height above his skin. “Charles –” Doctor Worth looked up from packing the photos away, “when you say, ‘nothing that could help me’ does that mean that you found nothing?”

Worth slid the last of the photos into the filing folder and quickly wrote its serial number on the label in the corner. “Well, there were fibres on her clothes, but they all matched the names you gave me of the people in her close contact group.”

Vince stepped back from the door, “Which ones, in particular?”

* * *

“Go, go, go!” Matt prodded Bret impatiently up the stairs and toward his bedroom. He could hear Vince’s car pulling into the driveway. Panic set in. It was nearly one in the morning and on his first real babysitting job the kid was still awake and had spent all night playing video games. “Come on, hurry up!”

Bret thought the whole thing was hilarious and decided to fall fast asleep on the landing at the top of the stairs. Matt, however, watched on in horror as the child he was trying to herd out of sight fell into a comatose state. “What are you doing?” he whispered in alarm. Bret snored loudly in response. “For the love of…” Matt scooped him up and struggled into the corridor.

He was presented with five doors all of which were closed and the sound of a car door slamming outside. Not enough time to try them all. Matt gritted his teeth and opened the first door on the left with his elbow.

Bathroom. No good. Door opposite – linen press.

Keys jiggled in the lock of the door downstairs and Bret snored so loudly that he snorted. Giggling filtered through into the snoring. “I know you’re awake.” More giggling, less snoring. “Come on, please?” More snoring, less giggling. This was hopeless.

The front door opened and the steady sound of the rain outside kicked up a couple of notches in volume. Someone sighed and removed a garment of clothing. All of a sudden, Bret leapt out of Matt’s hold and scurried silently up the hallways and through into the room at the end. It was the only room Matt would not have tried. Generally speaking, the room at the end of the hallway was always the largest and belonged to the parent Oh no… Matt followed. Stopping outside the door, he listened. He could hear Bret fake-snoring somewhere in the room. Slowly, he opened the door and peered in.

“Good of you to check on him.”

Matt managed not to jump several feet from the door. Instead, he turned slowly to look at a weary Vince standing a few feet away from him. Vince’s shirt was undone a couple of buttons and his usually clean shaven face was on the verge of being reclaimed by stubble. “Yeah, I thought I’d make sure he was asleep,” replied Matt, closing the door.

Vince smiled thankfully, “You’re the first babysitter to get him to go to bed. Usually he’s still up sneaking around the house or playing video games. How did you do it?”

Matt smirked, “You know… Beginners luck.”

* * *

Vince asked Matt a few more questions about Edward Naxos and his relationship with the First Lady. He took notes as Matt spoke which was distracting. Eventually Matt left and Vince retired to his desk to set about trying to reconcile what Charles Worth had told him about the First Lady’s murder with his growing repertoire of information.

There were traces of five people on Colette’s clothing. This was brilliant. Taking this evidence into consideration, Vince could wean down his potential suspect pool to a tight knit group comprising of the most trusted people in civilization starting of course, with the President before moving on to the Head of Security and his stand in continuing with the dry cleaner down the road until finishing grandly with Colette Procris herself. All of whom had a legitimate reason for their ‘fibres’ to be appearing on the First Lady’s clothes. And of course, all of whom were too trustworthy to commit murder. (People always trusted their dry cleaners. Vince had never met a person who had surrendered their most prized suit to a person they did not trust).

Vince wanted to pound his head on the wall behind. It was too much to hope for a break through this early on in the investigation. That only happened in the movies.

Almost subconsciously, he pulled out his top drawer and retrieved the First Lady’s personal file. Vince pulled the small photograph of her out from under the paper clip and held it to the light whispering, “What do you know? I bet it’s more than you let on.”

CAPRICA
Six days before the murder

“For the sake of the gods Paul, rein her in.” In the President’s opinion, Jim was engaging in a love affair with his phone. It felt that every spare moment of his time was spent calling up people to spurt endless streams of uselessness. Unfortunately, occasionally the man had a point. “If you could only see the damage she was doing to your presidency, please consider what’s at stake. You owe it to the people you work for – to the public that elected you.”

“Jim –”

“Yes Mr. President?”

“You’re the Minister for Immigration.” Paul hung up the phone. There were twelve billion people in the Colony, why did Jim always pick him?

A soft knock at the door brought Paul over from his desk. His secretary poked her head around his door, “Mr. President, the Representative for Gemenon is here for his meeting.”

“Isn’t that at two?”

Margaret nodded. “Yes, but he was wondering if you could slot him in early. He has to fly out un-expectantly this afternoon. I checked your appointments; you are free for another half hour.”

Sometimes Paul wondered if it was worth keeping a schedule. No-one but him seemed to pay the slightest bit of attention to it. “All right, show him in.” Paul shared a meaningful look with his morning tea then bid it farewell.

* * *

“So what is it that you so desperately want to talk to me about?” Paul strode over to the lounge area in his office, inviting the other man to join him.

Epeius slid into the room. He was small in stature and slender. His robes dragged slightly on the floor and gathered in piles of fabric around his feet. His face was angular and harsh with a nose that protruded in one direction then shifted its agenda and headed down sharply in a hook. A broad smile filled his bony face when he spotted the President collapsing casually into the couch.

AERELON
Three hours and forty-two minutes until the fall

A scrap of metal bent violently outwards from the side of the gutted Raptor and flew out onto the dune. It rode the incline, flipping when its edge caught the sand. It was sharp and hot. The once grey metal had turned black and red in the heat of the crash. The ejected fragment picked up speed, tearing open the flesh of someone’s arm.

The cut was clean and swift, sealed by the hot touch of the metal. A man strewn over the dune cried out in a low, breathless scream. The pain revived him and he rolled over, holding onto his arm as sand poured off his uniform.

He was somewhere on Aerelon. He knew that, but could not remember where. There was so much noise in his head. People were yelling, the engines scratched and ground over. An intense heat, rising up from the floor. Someone shouted, ‘down, down, no!’ – and then white. A strange form of sleep between dreams and reality ensued. There was time but no place, no reality but a perception of existence.

Now he thought he saw Athena, rise from the wreck of the Raptor. Her robes flowed over the fire and the flames calmed. Thick plumes of smoke twisted around her, rising and falling like the sweet incense that smouldered in the corner of his home. All things fell to her will.

The incense faded and the sun overhead rose. Blood trickled through his grip and dried on his hands.

E P E I U S

Chapter Six

Caprica

Six days before the murder

Epeius – Senior Representative to the Quorum for Gemenon.

He was a man accountable only to a select few and was adept at navigating the tangled political webs that were often spun in the voids between public conscious and Parliament.

It was not uncommon for such a man to think that he had as much right to the presidential office as the President himself. In Epeius’s particular case, this was not solely the result of a self indulgent imagination. The once extensive funds of Epeius Luna-Tye Junior were ingrained in the very woodwork of Paul’s Presidency. Epeius could feel the residual gleam of his gold as he ran his hands over the President’s door, closing it quietly behind him.

The President’s office was claustrophobic even with the heavy curtains behind the desk pulled open and secured by thick silk ropes to the hooks in the wall. The towering glass windows were choked by an emergence of trees and flowering bushes outside. One of the tall, sprawling Cydorwood trees had died off some time ago leaving an array of skeletal branches spanning the full height of the window. This peculiar assortment of flora obscured the otherwise divine view of Caprica City. The mountains, the gentle roll of apartment blocks and city lights all fell casually toward the bay. It was just after noon, and the light made the world outside a little too harsh to entice one to plunge into it.

Epeius moved through the office. In the early years, his support had saved the beloved President Paul Stravos, presently draped over the couch, from his fate as an upper-middle class socialite with too much to say and nothing of actual worth to speak of. A sad, but undeniable reality of which all parties involved required reminding of on occasion. Occasions like this one…

When dealing with demons and souls, it is well advised to remember that the devil will betray you for a better offer and that the gods will punish you for being one of two fools; either you were a fool to sign a contract with a demon or you were stupid enough to get caught with the pen in your hand. On the topic of demons, Epeius was aware that he rarely gave the President’s wife credit for being equally talented at acquiring finance. Better put, she was excellent at acquiring the credit her father funded in the pits of his oil wells. It was Troy Procris’s money, black and heavy, that had served as the necessary second financial backing for the Presidency. Epeius could not bring himself to go so far as to say that the Procris’ role was of equal value to his own. No. Where they gave money, he offered a certain influence that was of superior importance. As was the wonderful era in which they lived; what you knew about people was more essential than whom you knew. Unfortunately, at the outset of his career, Paul knew nothing and no-one of interest.

Paul was a man with potential, nothing more. Epeius had always seen Paul for what he could be – a clean slate for the Quorum to design a government more of their liking. This sort of thing was not undertaken into lightly. It was a long term investment. Expensive for careers and lives therefore the choice was not come to lightly. Paul was seen as the easiest candidate; by this we mean he was the cheapest. Procris money sweetened the deal in the same way that Ambrosia kills the mind. The intoxicating scent of their wealth left Epeius and his associates blind for too long to a woman who simply refused to fall quietly into the background. Colette Procris was threatening to throw all their time and money to the gods.

Colette, a woman predicted to be the next President. She would, of course, run for the other side.

Epeius eyed the current President of the Colonies with an air of quiet superiority. Paul was sitting comfortably on the couch with his usual pretence of civility firmly fixed upon his features. Only a man confident of his position cold behave in this way in front of one of the few people capable of bringing that position to an end.

The future of the Presidency was in doubt, and had been for some time now. The Government had slipped from its illicit agreement with the Quorum. Paul’s politics were shifting as Epeius had feared they might. As a prepared man, he had planned for this for some months. Other key people in the Government had now been made aware of Colette and her opposing politics. They started listening this morning when they read their newspapers. Even Epeius was taken aback by her talent with the public and the audacity she displayed by addressing the closed Quorum meeting on Canceron.

Colette was persuasive. She was, beyond all other compliments, a true sophist. In some slight, almost childish lingering vision of the world, Epeius admired her style. Therein lay her danger. Colette mesmerized you with undeniable logic, a wisdom derived from inspired knowledge that in the past, only the religious could claim.

President Paul Stravos shifted on the couch, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of time it was taking Epeius to settle. Paul pulled one of the leather bound cushions closer for use as an arm rest. Epeius set his brief case beside the small coffee table and continued at his leisurely pace.

To Epeius, the office smelt like the Temple Room upstairs – faintly of spice and smoke. The fire place, which had not been touched since Paul’s arrival, provided the focal point for the room. Hanging over its blackened hole was a protrusion of exquisitely carved Cydorwood, sanded and polished to reveal the wood’s famous lazy grain that swept around an occasional knot. Above was a small shelf on which sat the incense bowl complete with an un-burnt stick and miniature funeral stature. A curious ensemble – like something an explorer from another culture might collect on his travels and, knowing nothing of the particulars, attempt to recreate the romanticized culture in miniature to prove to others that he is likewise ‘cultured’. Remnants, Epeius inwardly smirked, of Paul’s previous personality.

“Mr. President.” Epeius smiled once more before moving past the fire place to sit in the chair at the other end of the couch.

Paul noted this deliberate action but said nothing. Epeius was a curious man, one he had never understood. He did not question Epeius’s eccentricities, nor did he attempt to decipher them.

Meanwhile, Epeius thought he was making himself rather obvious… “I apologize for the change in meeting time. My shuttle –”

“Yes,” Paul cut in, “I know. You have to fly out. Nothing too serious I hope?”

Epeius refreshed his false smile, “No, of course not. It is a matter of urgency only, nothing sinister.”

“In that case,” Paul straightened himself up, “what can I do for you today?”

“I’m afraid,” Epeius began cryptically, “it is a topic of some delicacy.”

* * *

Cris’s shuttle entered Caprica’s atmosphere amongst the busy traffic of pre-weekend hysteria. They had been on time, but found themselves stuck in a holding pattern just short of re-entry. You would think they could organize a better system.

“The pilot says there will be a nice view of the mountains when we get a little closer.” Matt tilted his head enough to peak out the window. This was their third lap around the face of Caprica. He could make out the edge of continents where the cloud cover broke. They were currently flying over the shadow which separated part of Caprica into night and the other into day. The side currently sleeping was the most beautiful. All the lights of the cities glittered in dense bands along the shoreline. It looked like a set of fairy cities on a magical, beautiful world. Not long now and they would be in full view of Caprica City’s continent. Regrettably, it was still day time there. Matt watched as the giant curved shadow approached their destination.

Cris was amused by the Colone’s interest in the scenery. She had left and re-entered the space over Caprica so many times that she often forgot to look out the window during final approach. Traveling with a ‘tourist’ renewed a little of that excitement. In this spirit, she followed his gaze out the window.

“The real view is behind you,” she said quietly. From her position opposite, she had a clear view of the dark curve of the planet. Matt turned awkwardly, restrained by his seatbelt. There was nothing there, only a sheet of black space and the edge of Caprica.

“I don’t –”

“Wait…” Cris encouraged, leaning her head on the glass of her window. “It takes a moment or two.”

* * *

Epeius, usually credited with oratorical affluence, could be succinct when required.

Paul stood at Epeius’s last comment, hastily moving to stand behind the couch. He was known to use it as a shield when there was nowhere else to hide. “Would you care to repeat that, Representative Epeius? I think I misunderstand you.” The President did his best to remain intimidating, but his ‘skills’ in the business were well known and often the point of much amusement to the more serious politicians.

Epeius took a lazy breath, “I said,’ he obediently repeated, “that you seem to have forgotten our arrangement of late and that you are not, as you presume, in-disposable to us.”

“Sorry?” Paul laughed in what could have passed as a nervous cough.

“Though I may credit you with poor hearing once, I will not do so again.” Epeius shifted in his chair. All his charm was reserved for the press; behind the walls of parliament sat the frank politician. “Mr. President, can you tell me where we were twenty years ago?”

Paul had not called security yet which suggested that he was in no position to do so. Without even realizing it, Paul had shown his hand – and it was empty. “That’s a long time.”

“I see your memory is like your hearing, so I shall remind you.” Epeius ran his bony hands over his Quorum garments. “Three years ago it was polling day. I believe you won, Mr. President, with an overwhelming majority. You remember, yes?” The President nodded, hating every minute of this conversation. “I suspected so. Seventeen years prior, and twenty years ago today, a third party arranged a meeting between you and I. We were on Canceron – lovely planet. It was evening and the excess of your wife’s money was devoted to a large party in honour of the first anniversary of your marriage. Is your memory returning?”

“Slowly…”

“Patience, I feel sure it will come back to you.” Paul gripped the back of the couch more firmly as Epeius continued. “This third party had, quite by chance, spied the opportunity for a unique alliance. A young man, newly wed and with an impeccable record had showed a serious interest in a political career. His aspirations, like his drive, were however regrettably low.

“Representing a local electoral… One suburb, in once city, on one continent, on a single planet. Our third party had something a little more ambitious in mind.

“You, Paul, were handpicked. You showed the suitable inclinations in politics and had enough charisma to build a campaign out of. We were going to make you President and at a much cheaper price than the other candidates. Your wife’s money – was a factor, you realize.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” said Paul angrily.

“No, but it would be advised.” That smile again, it owned Epeius and the press that believed it. Paul found it malicious. “Your wife was always our concern. Her politics are in opposition to yours and while most said not to worry about her, I always felt that she had more motivation than you. A shame, she would have been perfect.”

* * *

Caprica’s moon peaked over the dark edge of the planet. As it did, the sunlight caught a small object in orbit around it. Matt’s senses were overwhelmed. He saw that the space above the planet was filled with glowing ships, like their own, traversing in and out between one another. Hundreds of permanent satellites cruised by, some far above them while others hugged the planet. Highways rushed viciously through the twilight.

Matt could see the other ships in their holding pattern. Their shuttle followed these ships around in a less than graceful movement until their ship led the pack around a final turn and then dropped its altitude sharply, heading down toward Caprica City.

Matt felt himself shift forward in his seat as they decelerated while Cris felt her seat apply that familiar pressure upon re-entry. She always preferred to face outwards toward deep space rather than watch the planet rush toward her. Matt seemed to enjoy the reverse.

* * *

Paul started drinking – a lot as Epeius continued to elaborate on the many ways in which his assets and career were entwined within the Quorum’s robes. The President filled his second glass of Ambrosia from the decanter on the table in the corner of the room. Epeius had begun stalking to various locations in the room as he talked; currently he was near the Presidential desk, leaning up against the wall beside the door.

A ship touched down on the roof of Parliament, causing the room to quake subtly. The President heard the crystal glass set on the table beneath him knock against one another – their beautifully carved surfaces testing each other’s strength. Paul reached down, past the vessel of green liquor quivering beside them. Gently, he lifted the glass he had been drinking from out of the set to examine it.

Funny, he had held this glass a million times and it had appeared perfect on each occasion. Identical to its kin, but as he looked now – really looked, the surface was sharp where a splinter of glass was missing. It had been chipped, long ago.

The President swivelled the glass to the light until the vibrations of the room subsided. Light passed through the glass and shattered onto the wall next to him where colours emerged and bounced back. “Beautiful – don’t you think?”

Epeius’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Such a shame then.” The President pivoted, hurling the crystal at Epeius.

He ducked to the side as the delicate glass hit the wall, breaking into three. The jagged pieces fell to the floor followed by a storm of icy powder. The Quorum member swore.

* * *

Their shuttle touched down gently on Parliament roof. Matt smiled, helping the First Lady off the last step. Their confrontation earlier had not been forgotten, more – ignored. Despite her betrayal and his outburst, they seemed comfortable in each other’s presence. Cris held her hand up to cut through the glare of the sun as she made her way over the rooftop.

* * *

Ambrosia dripped off the edge of the door onto the carpet. Epeius lowered the hand he had instinctively used to protect his face. He was unharmed but a little shaken by the President’s sudden violence.

The two men were at an impasse.

Epeius was a man of words and could offer no defence against the violent Paul. Paul, however superior in this circumstance, was incapable of saving his future once Epeius stepped out and re-entered the world of politics.

“A mistake, I think,” said Epeius darkly.

* * *

The First Lady and the colonel were entering her office when they heard the sound of glass shattering.

Matt was through the door before Colette could think. She pushed aside her belongs and pursed Matt through the reception area and into the Presidential quarters.

Paul was on the far side of the room, his eyes fixated on something to the left of the door. There was a wet mark on the carpet where the door had been and the area smelt of sickly sweet alcohol.

“Is everything all right Mr. President?” Matt kept his hand close to his weapon as he proceeded into the room ahead of Colette. The President did not look at him. Instead, his attention remained on Epeius, recovering from his cowering position.

Colette entered the room, peering around the door to find the representative for Gemenon almost against the wall, wiping his face where a small amount of Ambrosia dribbled down it. Epeius noticed blood on the back of his hand. A splinter of crystal must have grazed him on the way through.

Colette closed the door, sealing everyone in the room. “Would someone like to explain what is going on here?” She maintained her diplomatic calm, as was her profession.

Paul’s expression did not change. There was nothing but disbelief and hatred in his eyes as he stared at Epeius.

Epeius wiped his hand on his ropes, their red concealing his blood all too easily. “No,” he said, moving to avoid the shattered remnants of the glass, “everything’s fine. We have reached an understanding.” Epeius left and the President let him do so. He was powerless to stop him.

Matt was unsure what to do next. His politics had never been keen but he was intelligent enough to realize that something was going on in this office that was far more serious and complicated than he had suspected. The President offered no assistance. Paul had simply chosen another glass and was busily filling it. Matt turned to the only person he had left for advice, Colette. It was a silent plea for assistance.

“You go,” she said quietly to the colonel. “Wait for me in my office, this won’t take long.”

Matt surveyed the Presidential office once more before stepping out of it, closing the door behind him.

Colette watched her husband attack his glass like it was his third or fourth. He used to drink, when they were still dating, but Paul had given it up except for social drinking. People told him it would be better for his career. They were right, but you could not change a person’s nervous habits. People always fell back on them at the first sign of trouble.

“What did he want this time?” Colette progressed slowly through the room. She had an acute dislike for Epeius, mainly because it was his planet’s government that was currently seeking civil war and she had no firm evidence to throw the scrawny creature in jail. “Epeius has always been bad news.”

Paul swallowed a generous serving of Ambrosia. “Nothing.” What else could he say? Paul was afraid of the power the Quorum had over his life. It infuriated him to know that everything he had worked for could be erased with ease. He wanted to talk to Colette about it but he had always had difficulty with the truth when she was around. She was intimidating, that was her gift. When the line was drawn, he would rather suffer the full wrath of the Quorum rather than a look of disappointment on his wife’s face. That was how it had always been between them. He wondered if she knew.

“You shouldn’t, Paul.” said Colette as he finished the glass. She stepped in, taking it gently out of his grasp. “It’ll solve nothing. It does, however,” Colette replaced the glass on the tray, putting the lid securely back on the glass jug after noticing the amount of liquid missing, “put you at a disadvantage.”

“What does it matter?” Paul retaliated, pushing past her. “Nothing I do matters! I’m just a pawn, Colette, a little toy that the Quorum likes to play with when they get bored. The scarf they can throw up to confuse their real enemy when it serves their need. I am nothing.” He heard the sound of glass crunching into the carpet. Paul looked down at the remains of his glass, “There’s no point to it. We bought the Presidency at too higher price.”

“The Quorum doesn’t own the Presidency, and, unless my husband has vanished while I was away, they don’t own you either.”

Paul picked up the large pieces of broken glass. “Why can’t you just support me for these few years?” He threw them in the bin, dusting the pulverized flecks of his hands. Colette sensed this was about to be about her. “But you – can’t. You use your position to forward your own agendas with no regard for this office or your place.”

Colette’s hands found the couch and, unlike her husband, she used it to lean on – forming an ominous pose. “Are you finished?”

“You will stop this ridiculous pursuit of yours. You go on and on like the world’s going to end meanwhile the other parties use you as a decoy to undermine this Presidency. If this continues, it’s all over.”

Silence passed between them. “Not our world sweetheart.”

“It’s like – you can’t even hear me! If Epeius doesn’t own the Presidency then neither do you. Either way you are not at liberty to abuse its power on a whim as if you were elected commander and chief!”

Their voices were loud enough to be heard through the nearest corridors. They were ignored. This was not the first time the staff of Parliament had heard this kind of discussion. Matt, however, listened intently.

Colette’s temper wore thin. She walked over to the door and curled her hand tightly over the handle. “But I do own the Presidency Paul.” Then she left with Paul sending another item from his desk hurtling toward the closed door.

R U M O U R S ~ O F ~ P R I V I L E G E

Chapter Seven

Caprica

Six days before the murder

Colette waited long enough to hear something else follow the Ambrosia glass’s demise. Whatever it was hit the door with a dull thud then fell to the ground. Last time this happened she had been leaning up against that door, with her back pressed to the wooden surface. She was close enough to feel it then.

That was Paul’s way; throwing things that did not belong to him.

It seemed that once again they had drawn more silly lines in the sand, so many over the years that she’d forgotten where half of their boundaries were. Little good those boundaries were with the tide on its way in. The hour was drawing late for them – the daylight was starting to wane and the moons of their world were drawing the waters ever closer. When the tide came, and coming it was…

“Good afternoon, this is the President’s office, how may I help you?”

Colette went to open the President’s door. She got as far as clasping the handle, but something held her back. A choice was in the process of being made, quite without her consent, in the deepest – most primal parts of her mind. Instinct had sensed a volatile future and was taking hold. If she walked away from this door, without opening it, she knew for certain that she would walk away from him.

This same instinct told her that she would, without questioning it, obey. Once, in the memory of someone else’s life, this would have caused her considerable distress. What she felt now was a quiet regret. A defiant sadness that this was the end of her first real relationship, but there was nothing to be done. Her decision might save them both.

“…I’m afraid he’s in a meeting at the moment – yes, I know you that, but I’m afraid that can’t be arranged…”

Cris walked through the reception area smiling pleasantly at the receptionist. She proceeded through into the main corridor heading right, toward the elevator which she took directly to the roof.

The lights in the pilot’s cabin were still on. As she’d hoped, the Captain had not finished checking the shuttle since her arrival a quarter of an hour earlier.

He heard her approach through the cabin. “What can I do for you today, young lady?”

The Captain had always reminded Colette of the old sea masters that used to give her rides across the ocean when the weather was fine. He was the type that liked to think she was a relative of his; it was the same with all the girls, she suspected. “Can I ask you a favour, Captain?”

“Surely sweetheart. Anything for you, you know that.”

“I’d like – ” Cris paused, not sure exactly what she was after. “I’d like to go across town to the ‘Twelve Colonies’. Short notice I realise, but something’s come up.”

It was always there, that knowing smile. The Captain did her bidding without question, which made a nice change from the other men in her life.

* * *

Colette strode into the foyer of the lavish hotel. Porters and waitmen crossed back and forth along the exterior. A drink waiter ventured into the circular seating arrangement in the centre where various important looking people had arranged themselves at respectful distances. They were watching her through their newspapers. One lowered theirs enough to make a request of the waiter. No doubt these assorted guests were waiting for the real business hours to begin.

“Good afternoon and welcome to the Twelve Colonies. How may I help you?”

“That time already? I’d like a room for this evening, but I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation.”

The woman, without referring to her screen, replied, “The Presidential suite is available, Ms. Procris.”

As much as she appreciated the popularity, sometimes she just wished she could vanish for a while and be offered a dodgy room well out of the way of prying eyes. “No, that won’t be necessary – just somewhere I can see the water will do fine.”

Presidential room, short notice – no problem. Ordinary room with a view of the water? Now that caused a frown to appear.

“Room 1360 ma’am. It will be ready in half an hour. Do you require a porter for your luggage?”

Colette glanced down at the small overnight bag she was holding. “No, no.” The receptionist handed over the key. “Oh…” Colette had almost forgotten. “Send a bottle of your best whisky to my shuttle and offer the gentleman there a room for the night – he’ll say no to the room, but offer it anyway.”

“Certainly ma’am.”

* * *

Matt waited patiently in Colette’s office for some time even though he had guessed quite early on that Colette had performed another one of her famous disappearing acts. It was enough to send his stomach into knots. Was it any wonder the President had asked him to keep an eye on her! Guarding Colette was a full time job and then some.

“Margaret, do you know where the First Lady is?”

The secretary looked a little concerned at the question. “With you,” she said hesitantly.

“Right – of course.”

What an idiot! Matt scalded himself as he headed up to the roof, hoping that she might have sort refuge in her shuttle, which she had. The parking space was vacant.

“Fabulous.” Matt scuffed his shoes on the cement rooftop in displeasure. Freeing himself of his jacket, Matt strolled over to the edge of the rooftop to look out over the water and enjoy the pre-dusk breeze. It was pleasantly warm with the sun setting behind him. The top of Parliament Building cast a narrow shadow over Matt and the city below. It was as if the streets were sinking in the shadows that formed between the crests of these concrete fortresses. Music would begin playing shortly from the numerous restaurants along the water. How pleasant it would be, thought Matt, to be able to share a glass of wine in one of their balconies.

Caprica

Present day

The cell door was heavy and closed ungracefully. One of the three guards locked inside readjusted his weapon. Vince approached the prisoner, surprised to see Troy Procris under extensive guard. The man was not the finest physical example, but he was in good health for his age. Vince had a well informed suspicion that the guards were not afraid of Mr. Procris – they were afraid of the people on their way to free him. A man with such a sheer volume of influence could be counted on to mount a completely legally illegal escape, and soon.

The room itself was devoid of furniture, so Troy sat on the floor in the middle of the back wall. His figure was draped in poorly fitting red overalls. Several bruises that were already turning yellow obscured his face. Whatever damage he may have done to Naxos, it had not been entirely one sided. “Mr. Procris, my name is Detective Moretti, and I am here to ask you some questions about the death of Colette Procris.”

Troy threw his head back and laughed. “You are not here to ask me why the Representative and I had a bit of a tiff then?”

“I was hoping they might be the same question.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice for you…”

“I assure Mr. Procris, that co-operating with me will look good in your trial.” Troy was unmoved. “I’m sure they’ve told you that Edward Naxos died a short time ago?”

“Figures, the old bastard never could go the distance.”

“I’m sure a jury will see events slightly differently.” Vince came to rest directly in front of him. “You’re only way out is to give me the information I need so that I can write you a lovely recommendation and maybe, with luck, you’ll get manslaughter and won’t spend the remainder of your life in this jail cell.”

Troy did not respond. He did not even flinch. Vince glanced up at the tiny square of light making its way through the corner of the room. Troy followed his eye but found a smile to counter Vince’s smugness.

“You think you can help me?” he began, almost curiously, “I do not require help,” he continued, “especially not from your kind.”

“From where I’m standing, help is everything you need.”

“You are incorrect Vince, and it would do you well to remember that you can be wrong.” Troy looked up at the guards either side of him. Even with Troy in chains, they avoided eye contact. “My lawyer is not present so this conversation is over. My father was a man of the law, Mr. Moretti, and it is foolish to think that I do not know it. For my own interest though, I will tell you this. No one is ever stabbed by one person.”

Inwardly, Moretti frowned. He did not have time for unravelling riddles. “To my knowledge, no one has been stabbed – yet.”

Whenever Troy spoke, Vince got the impression that he thought of Vince as some kind of pesky insect that he kept alive only to torture further. “Think about it,” he said simply. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to.”

* * *

The court hearing for Troy Procris was scheduled in one week’s time. Two hours after Vince left the cell, Troy was gone. Absorbed back into the world. No wonder he was not afraid. More to the point, Vince had not told Troy his name. He wondered how he knew it.

Caprica

Six days before the murder

Colette relaxed in one of the comfortable lounge chairs in the main bar area. If anyone knew who she was, they knew enough to keep their distance and their respective conversations to themselves. The man at the grand piano was an old school friend. Currently he was working his way down a lengthy list of light jazz that she had once spent time enjoying in a little bar on Canceron. Music was graceful. His was unpredictable.

She needed a way to prove the connection between Gemenon and the complex trade industries of Aerelon and Canceron. Not just any proof either, it had to be undeniable evidence of Gemenon’s desire to set the world’s at war. If that could be done then the Quorum could be overruled. So far all her evidence was hearsay.

Rumour placed Epeius in this hotel sometime this evening. Cris was counting on him to make an appearance at the nearby bar. Stalking was still illegal, even for public servants, but she could not be held accountable if some of her friends – who just happened to be staff, let slip a few intricate details of his travel arrangements.

Colette was soon to find out that she was misinformed.

“Another, ma’am?”

Cris had not realized her glass was empty. “A lemon lime and bitters this time and a bowel of nuts Tom, I’m starving.”

“Dinner is available in the dining hall early if you would prefer.” Tom leant down to collect her glass, as he did he tilted his head to whisper, “The reservation was cancelled by phone.” He straightened himself up.

Colette slipped him a generous tip. Her confrontation with Gemenon would have to wait. Even if she could not get the truth to the world, she desperately wanted it to hear it for herself. It appeared evident by today’s exhibition that the Quorum was preparing to bring down the Presidency. That could not be allowed to happen yet.

Caprica

Present day

“He’s gone then?”

“Very,” replied Vince, shuffling through his desk drawers.

“Just walked out through the front doors?”

“So it would seem.” Vince dropped the phone accidentally, swearing as a folder flipped open and spewed its contents over the desk and floor. Matt waited patiently on the other end while Vince fumbled around. “Sorry, you there still?”

“Listen Vince, I’ve been hearing things. Strange stuff. Rumours of some kind of – privileged information. Something Colette was caught up in before she – anyway, I thought you should know. Edward Naxos was connected to it as well.”

Vince stopped fussing with his papers, “What kind of information? Hold on, who told you this?”

Matt’s voice was rushed. The background chatter placed him somewhere in the facility of public transport. Horns blared and the general chatter of frustrated commuters made it difficult for him to hear, “Look, meet me in Central Park in half an hour. I think I can get someone to fill in for me after I finish this.”

Putting the phone down, Vince collected the rest of the documents from the floor. His office desk was hidden below several layers of accumulated evidence thrown on his desk throughout the day by various associates. It was more a cubical than a proper office. From his chair he could see the rest of the ‘offices’ hug the back wall. Opposite, a panel of glass let in much needed light and slats above them helped to circulate the air. Half a dozen detectives paced about with files in hand. This was the last day the entire services of the department were to be focused on the Procis Case. Tomorrow operations would resume, as crime had not paused. A select team, including Vince, would remain assigned to this case. Between the press and the public, pressure was mounting to find the killer. Everyone was anxious to know how someone in a high public office could be murdered so viciously inside the building that stood for permanence and order. Further, the people struggled to cope with the loss of a widely loved woman who promised to restore peace to the Colonies. How was such peace to be found now that its torch bearer had been quashed without mercy?

In peak time, Central Park was a thoroughfare for city commuters. The fountain at its centre propelled water into the air regardless of the hour. Thirteen jets of liquid hit the mossy rocks and broke over their carved forms, flowing back into the aqua pond. Matt sat on the edge of this structure. Vince recognised him from the opposite end of the park. His suited friend was seated beside a tourist group snapping away at the spectacular fountain. A small child from the group challenged his patience by running along the stone boundary that held the main body of water, leaping over Matt on each circuit.

“I suppose your watch is broken as well as your phone,” said Matt on Vince’s arrival. It had been close on forty-five minutes since they had spoken.

Vince hauled himself up onto the edge of the fountain. His feet dangled as he leant backwards to look up at the great tragic figure at its centre. Below the choppy water, assorted coins glistened. As a boy, Vince had fantasised about ducking beneath the water to collect them and buy ice-cream at the store by the edge of the park. “What kind of information is so important that you hauled me all the way down to this miserable place?”

Matt forced a smile as he watched Vince test the water. The child that had been circling him earlier reappeared but did not attempt to jump over them. “It’s not information, perse.” Vince straightened. “Colette did not share any of her work with me; I was just the body guard you understand.”

Vince nodded. He had not expected Matt to know any of the particulars.

“It didn’t even occur to me until today,” Matt shook his head, “I should have said something earlier but I thought it was to do with the nasty run in with him she had.”

“Had a run in with whom?”

“Epieus,” Matt closed his eyes, “it was about two weeks ago. The First Lady and I had just returned from Canceron –”

“Yes, I know,” interrupted Vince. “I read about her address to the Quorum. Apparently she lifted a few robes.”

“That would put it mildly. When we returned to Caprica that afternoon, we heard raised voices coming from the President’s office. Naturally Colette dropped everything to have look. I followed. We found Epieus cowering by the door and the President standing opposite. His speech was slurred and I should think he had had a bit to drink.”

Vince understood why Matt had not ventured this information before. During his job he witnessed things that were better hushed up for the good of the Presidency. Drunken arguments with Quorum members were probably best left to lie.

Matt left out the subsequent argument between Cris and the President. “That night though, the Quorum held an unplanned session. I only noticed because I almost walked in on them that evening while doing a security check of the building. Colette didn’t know about it, I’m sure of it.”

“So they held a meeting, I thought that was the only thing they did.”

Only now did Matt feel the same frustration that had haunted Cris throughout her life. “That is not the point.”

Caprica

Six days before the murder

Matt waited on the rooftop until the night was firmly in place. Out on the water, colourful lights bobbed with the current. It appeared that the First Lady was not coming back tonight, and waiting out on a rooftop as a storm started to build on the horizon, would not hasten her return. “All right,” he whispered, pushing himself off the railing. One of his favourite tunes finished playing below with applause as another one overlapped it. These pleasant festivities would have to pack up in a few hours once the nightly summer storm rolled in.

Passing the vacant parking space of the First Lady’s shuttle, Matt ducked into the warmth of the building. With nothing to do now that his job had commandeered a ship for the night, he started on a routine security sweep.

One of the first rooms he entered was the temple room. It was dark and quiet with its heavy drapes drawn over the view. The afternoon prayer session was long over and there would not be another one until the weekend.

Running his hand along the decorative wallpaper of the narrow hallway, Matt hummed one of the tunes he had spent the evening enjoying. He had forgotten how quiet the Parliament building was after hours. Lately he had spent all his time trailing the First Lady. It had been an adventure, one that his queasy stomach was glad for a break from. There was nothing like solid ground beneath your feet sometimes.

Catching his heavy set of keys mid-throw, Colonel Matthew Lenard stopped in front of the next set of double doors. These ones were slightly more ornate than the others of the hallway. Arching across both doors was a gold inset that read, ‘Gods shall hear our cry and answer’. Matt smiled, his ability to read the ancient language expiring after the first line.

The doors opened with a defiant squeak. Matt was met, not with another blackened room as he had expected, but with the glare of the Quorum in full session. The room appeared as if on pause. The curved seating held a silent audience while the speaker on the ground held his bony hands clasped in front of him. Epieus had halted mid-sentence. There were no meetings at this hour.

Epieus was the first to speak. He relaxed his stance, and turned to face Matt. “Colonel, may we help you?”

The room listened intently. Matt, taken off guard and uneasy around politicians of any sort, had no response.

“No?” Epieus laid a hand on the podium, “Then perhaps you would be kind enough to close the doors on your way out.”

Confused, Matt nodded silently and left. He listened at the door for a few minutes, but the doors refused to whisper.

Caprica

Present Day

“So you left?” said Vince, listening intently to Matt’s recount.

“What else could I do?”

Matt had a point. Holding an unscheduled meeting meant nothing. Well, Vince corrected himself, it defiantly meant something, but you could not do anything about it. What would you say to them, stop talking? “Nothing,” said Vince. “Though I think there is something else you came to tell me about.”

“Yes of course,” he replied, “it happened today. It is probably nothing.” Matt stood up from his relaxed position against the fountain and moved closer to Vince. “I spent the day escorting the President between finance meetings. On the third, he asked me to wait outside. This happens often in closed meetings and I did not worry. As you could imagine, a lot of people pass by at this time of the day and when you are bored beyond reason, you listen.”

“You should try ‘people watching’, more interesting.”

“Vince…” said Matt irritably, not in the mood for interruptions. Vince apologised. “It was Epeius.”

“Gods he gets around – sorry,” Vince held his hand over his mouth, promising to remain quiet.

“He was talking to a few gentlemen in robes that I had not seen before, and I don’t think he saw me at first. All I heard was, ‘we cannot have that old hack Naxos seeding his filth on every vermin ridden Colonel, afternoon.’ Then he nodded at me and the group walked off without a word. That wasn’t the most interesting thing though; it was what one of the other gentlemen said.”

“Which was?”

“’And the letter, it has been sent.’”

Vince body language echoed Matt’s frustration. “That’s not enough. Those comments on their own mean nothing.”

“I know, but at least we know that Naxos and Epieus weren’t the best of friends. That, at least, has to mean something. As for the contents of the letter, I couldn’t guess.”

“But if I made you guess?”

Matt frowned, “Guessing is not what I do.”

“Come on Matt, I refuse to believe the military has sucked you dry of your curiosity.”

“Well, if I had to guess, which I never do, I would guess that it had something to do with this civil war the First Lady was so focused on. It’s all she did for those last few weeks and Epieus was at the top of her list of persons of interest.”

P R O V E R B I A L – S T O N E
Chapter Eight

Caprica

Present day

“Brazen bastard,” muttered Vince Moretti, switching the morning news off. Troy Procris had some nerve giving a press conference. What Vince really wanted from him was an interview, but Troy was untouchable on the waves of Canceron.

Stretching, he squinted at the bruised clock beside his bed. Five in the morning, he could catch a few more minutes of sleep if he really tried.

That morning at breakfast, Vince licked his jam covered fingers as he cut the hastily made sandwich into four. With sticky fingers, he tore off a section of clingwrap while cautioning a look at the clock above the oven. Vince was rewarded with an error message. Shit, he had meant to get that fixed. Maybe he would have a go at that this afternoon.

“Dad, we’re gonna be late!” Bret stood at the door with his arm outstretched expectantly.

“You’re going to be late, I am already very late.” Vince packed the sandwich into the yellow lunch box along with other items varying in nutrition. “Have you got your instrument?” Bret sighed and raised the black case in his other hand. “Right, good.”

“Come on, Miss Avery takes maths first and she makes you stand if you’re late.”

“Tell them it was my fault.” Vince searched for his coffee, but failed to find it next to the coffee machine where he had left it an hour ago.

“It’s the third time this week. She won’t believe me!”

Gods he sounded like his mother sometimes. “Here,” Vince put his son’s bag on the bench. “Right, keys, keys, keys… ah keys,” Vince scrunched up his face when he felt that horrible sticking sensation between his fingers. “Tomorrow you’re having chicken,” he said, washing them.

“I’m with mum tomorrow…”

Vince wiped his hands on his pants, “I knew that.”

* * *

“You’re late Vince.” Moretti’s hated boss threw another package on Vince’s desk then proceeded to stalk the rest of the room with his tattooed neck on display. That man looked more like an ex-con than a police officer, which was probably due to the fact that he had, indeed, done time. ‘All adds to the flavour,’ he used to say.

“What have we here?” said Vince under his breath as he flipped the package over. It was a padded envelope sent by courier. Whatever was inside was heavy but did not seem to have any rigid shape. Giving in, Vince took his stainless steel letter opener in hand.

A junior cop strolled passed, stopping to turn his pokey nose up in revolt at Vince. “That’s disgusting!” he said, backing away from Vince’s desk with a look of horror.

Vince was in a state of shock. His hands and desk had become slippery as a greasy substance poured out from the envelope. It was blacker than the night sky and stuck to everything it touched leaving the faintest smell of salt.

* * *

“Someone likes you Vince, sending you an envelope of oil.”

Vince’s hands were still black along with his morning newspaper which had earned its purchase price protecting his desk. “If only I could siphon it into my car.”

“I think you have bigger problems than filling your car with people like Troy Procris sending you gifts.” Matt heard chairs shuffle behind the door where he was waiting. “Look, I have to go.”

“’Course,” Vince glared at the people staring at him. It was not like he was the first to be sent curious mail. Hanging up the mobile, Vince examined the damage with a cringe, rubbing the greasy residue between his fingertips.

Caprica

Five days before the murder

Colette Procris woke up in a hotel bed. At first she found it pleasant waking up away from the stress of her life. Paul would be wondering where she was, but she doubted that he would be surprised at her absence. The city noise was quieter here. It was peaceful in the room. Finely woven silk fell from the frame above the windows. Cris had left them open last night forgetting that the beautiful nights turned to torrential downpours. She hoped the curtains would dry before checkout. The weather was predictably unstable here.

A loud snore brought her out of sleep’s grasp. Sitting up, she pulled the sheet to her chest and searched the room. She had been alone last night, she was sure of it. By the third snore she realised that it was coming from her door rather than the room.

Yawning, Colette tied a robe around her scant figure and went for the door. She slid the chain across and pulled it open. The culprit fell at her feet. “Colonel!” she gasped, stepping backwards. Colonel Matthew Lenard blinked, squinting up at the angel-like figure in white. “How did you find me?”

Matt sat up, “Same way you lost me,” he replied sleepily, “I called the Captain.”

Colette sighed, “I shouldn’t have sent him that last bottle.” With that she closed the door on Matt and headed back toward the bed. A gentle knock came before she was able to reach it.

Still seated on the floor outside, Matt proceeded to knock on the door.

A young porter boy paused as he passed a dishevelled man on the floor outside one of the hotel room. He was knocking calmly with no answer. “Can I help you?” he said politely.

“It’s doubtful,” replied Matt.

The boy tipped his hat and continued down the hall with his trolley full of bags. Giving up, Matt leant against the door and started debating whether his severely cramped body was capable of standing. His head hit the floor again as the door of Room 1360 swung open.

The First Lady knelt down beside him, her dark hair falling over her shoulder in an un-brushed mass. “Have you been here all night?” she asked softly. Matt nodded.

* * *

Room service delivered two full breakfasts. Colette, still in the hotel dressing gown, sat across the small table. She folded one leg underneath and cupped her coffee in both hands. Matt sat forward grinding some pepper over his eggs.

“I’ve had several body guards Colonel, but you are the first to spend the night on the floor.”

Matt searched the table for the salt, “I’m probably the first one you’ve run out on twice in a row. I hope you weren’t meeting the Minister for Aerelon, people will talk.”

They both laughed. “Turns out,” said Colette leaning forward to inspect her breakfast, “that you are the only person I have met so far.”

“That is a very sad life, Ms. Procris.”

He jumped as she kicked him under the table. “Aren’t you going to tell me why you sacrificed your spinal column?”

Matt explained how he had waited for her to return. She listened placidly until he came to the part about the Quorum being in session during the early evening.

“You’re mistaken,” she said at first. “I would have known.” Even as she said the words, it was clear to Matt that she had suspected her contacts within the Quorum were waning. “Was it a full sitting? Never mind, it doesn’t change anything. Epeius is gaining friends while mine fall away and still I need more time.”

“Time to do what, ma’am?”

“Please,” she said sadly, “you have to stop calling me that.”

* * *

The President’s head ached. His body was nauseous from an evening brewed in the pit of a martini glass. Looking to his right, Paul found his bed empty. The folded sheets on Colette’s side turned his stomach further. He had no idea where she had spent the night. It was not the first time this had happened, but it was the first time that the thought of her never returning had crossed Paul’s soul.

He rolled back over and pulled the sheets to his chin, not wanting to see the sun rise.

* * *

“Am I allowed to know our heading?” said an unshaven Matt from the front row of the Presidential shuttle. The First Lady was in speaking to the Captain, but Matt knew that she could still hear him. It was too early to go anywhere but back to Parliament House. If they hurried, nobody but the President would realise that she had not spent the night there.

The First Lady bent over as she exited the front compartment. Beneath their feet they could feel the engines of the shuttle start to hum quietly. “You are going to Parliament House,” she said, quickly taking her seat.

“Are our intentions to kill or maim?”

Colette considered her options carefully. “A little of both I hope.”

“Right,” smiled Matt. “I’ll have your lawyer on standby then.”

She turned her face to the morning light. It was warm and glorious – fresh and ambivalent. “You do that. I appoint you the position of reason,” she joked, her eyes closed. “Gods know we some.”

Matt winked, “Ma’am.”

Caprica

Present Day

“Suspicious Lab accident,” Vince’s boss threw another folder on his desk. Its hefty weight curled his nose.

“Aerelon?” Vince groaned, reading the location. “Explain to me why I care?”

The boss frowned as if Vince’s very existence was an offence. “Because you a man of the law,” he declared, quoting some recruitment poster. “A model citizen who’s duty it is to investigate the – ” The boss paused, taking a step toward Vince’s desk. He lowered his voice. “Two reasons. One, I asked you to. And two, you want to.”

Without another word, he stalked off to harass the other members of the office. Vince rolled his eyes and flipped open the folder. He scanned down the cover page, sighing.

* * *

“Wow, you look more depressed than a welcome mat.” Matt nudged the detective as he sat down next to him. They were outside on the top level of the Parliament building.

The horrid smell of grease etched its way into the landscape. Vince subconsciously gave his hands a once over before realising that it was Matt’s takeaway offending the atmosphere. “I’ve booked a flight for Aerelon today,” he moaned. “I don’t want to go to Aerelon.”

“That bad?” Matt bit down on his lunch. “At least you’re not going to Virgon…”

Vince glanced sideways at him, shaking his head. “Wait, why are you going there?”

“I go where he goes,” said Matt between bites.

Vince translated ‘he’ as ‘President’. “Planet A or B?”

Virgon was the only double planet system in the collection of worlds known as, ‘The Colonies’. True, with three planets, Picon was the most irregular, but two of those were more like moons than actual planets. Their small, rocky surfaces hardly compared to the truly double planet system of Virgon.

“The big one,” was all Matt said. “What’s your excuse?”

Vince shrugged. “Duty. A couple of scientists met their end and it’s supposed to be my problem. I think I’m being punished for being a pain in the ass. Boss does things like that.”

“Scientists? Very strange that they called you in, Vince. Aerelon has their own law enforcement and they’re not too keen on help.”

“I know that. Hence the concealed weapon.” Vince patted his waist band.

“Crazy son of a bitch.”

“Always will be.”

Present Day

Virgon Planet Astraea

Yellow. That was Matt’s only thought for the first ten minutes of his adventures on the planet’s surface. The earth on which the main city had been built was soft and clayish and had been used as a feature in all the gardens that lined the footpaths and roads to the CBD. Most of the plants used in these arrangements were a deep beetroot colour, and the likely decedents of cacti.

When he tilted his head up to the soft light in the sky, Matt saw a large sphere, obscured by the horizon, beginning to eclipse the sun. It was Themis, the sister planet of the Vigon duo. Even though Matt knew that Themis was a world of thick forests and sporadic cities, she looked a pastel rouge in the atmosphere.

“How far to the Law Courts?” he asked the President, as they waited at a set of lights. Usually, the President would never walk on the streets, but Astraea was the most secure city in the colonies. It was devoted almost entirely to the law, and they were currently approaching its heart. It was impossible to get within 40 metrics by air.

“A block,” he answered roughly, pounding the button on the traffic light. The stepped back abruptly as one of the cars took the corner they were standing on a little too sharply. “Frakking bureaucrats. They make rubbish drivers.”

* * *

The President left his security detail outside . The Honourable John Herminal had an office on the top floor of the law courts overlooking the great expanse of grey and yellow that was daily joy of its population. The city spikes flared out like an elegant daiquiri, tapering off toward the cave ridden hills behind the urban sprawl.

The office itself was thickset, embroidered with furniture bought from deceased estates of the old wealth. Herminal was a man who set his look to a constant scowl. His hair twisted in white curls that joined a fearsome beard. Icy blue eyes hid beneath generously swooped eyebrows which curled up toward the ceiling.

“Your wife’s insurance policy covers circumstances of pre-meditated murder,” he began, without a hint of compassion. “Providing that her killer or killers are found and prosecuted, you stand as the sole inheritor of her wealth as she left no other instructions prior to her death.”

Paul Stravos’s shoulder’s dropped slightly. “And how much is that?” Herminal passed him a document with a highlighted section at the bottom, anointed with tabs. “Oh…” It was a lot of money. More than enough to free him from the tightening grip of Epieus. “Good,” he breathed, satisfied.

Herminal shook his head, a couple of his silver hairs floating to the floor. “You do not understand. Unless her killers are prosecuted in a court of law, her assets cannot be transferred to you. They will remain in the hands of The Colonies until such time as the circumstances of her death are resolved or the expiration on the holding date reached.”

“And how long is that?” said Paul, leaning forward in the oversized chair.

“Generally, twenty-five years. Long enough to discourage crimes of finance.”

“But that’s too long. I will be ruined by then.”

“I’m sorry Paul. You have been with us a long time, but as I told your father, some things not even the law can change.” He took the file back and placed it in the open drawer of a file cabinet. “It would have been better if you had killed her,” said Herminal, pushing the drawer shut. “Legally speaking. You’d inherit the money, serve fifteen years for manslaughter – out in ten with good behaviour.”

Paul collapsed back in his chair, frustration building in his chest. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Present Day

Aerelon Police Department

Detective Vince Moretti ran his eyes over the imposing statue at the entrance to the APD. The polished Bloodstone was marbled with veins of gold and black that caught the lights of the building behind. It was almost night and Vince was yet to see the dune-locked landscape this place was famous for.

“Wish they wouldn’t send in the filth…” muttered a uniformed passerby as Vince took a turn around the statue. Shortly after, Vince caught sight of a tall, plain clothes man weaving through the sea of red and yellow officers. The man was carrying several files and appeared to be scanning the room.

As soon as they caught sight of each other, the man waved Vince toward him. They finally met up in one of the corners of the entrance hall where they were able to escape the endless shuffling of feet.

“The Caprican?”

Vince looked over his shoulder before realising that the officer was referring to him. “I usually go by Vince.”

“Humour. That’s a good start. You’re going to need it in this place. I’m Detective Carlo.” They shook hands wearily. “Reading material,” he said, handing Vince the folders. “Anyway, I suppose you want to talk about the letter.”

Vince frowned. “It was my understanding that you had a couple of dead scientists sprawled across their lab.”

Carlo fished a pair of glasses out of his pocket. “Yes,” he slipped them on his head and blinked rapidly, finally able to see. The confused face of the Caprican detective came into focus. “That’s what I said, you want to know about the letter.”

Caprica

Five days before the murder

Matt and Cris stepped off the shuttle and made their way across Parliament roof. He stepped ahead of her to open the door to the building, guided her through it, and then closed it behind them. They approached the elevator together but she placed her hand on his blazer collar, preventing him from signalling the lift.

“What?” He motioned forward but she held him steady.

“I need you to do me a favour,” she said seriously, reaching behind her to summon the lift. “Will you wait for me here?”

Matt gave a look that unmistakably read seriously?

“Look,” she said as the lift pulled up. “I’ll meet you back here in four hours – ”

“Four – ”

“Please… This is something I need to do. If it makes you feel better, I promise not to kill anyone.”

The Colonel exhaled sharply.

“Or maim them.”

T E R M S – O F – R E L E A S E
Chapter Nine

Aerelon

Present Day

“What a frakking mess…”

Detectives Moretti and Carlo sidestepped over a river of blood running from the steel bench top at the far end of the room all the way across the polished cement to the door. Two bodies were strewn over the floor with their limbs reaching out and their eyes fixed on imaginary points. Their white lab coats had become a brownish red whilst the remnants of their experiment joined them in fragments on the floor.

“Brutal, isn’t it?” said Carlo, wiping his forehead. “We found them just over six hours ago. Forensics was given strict instructions not to move them until you arrived.”

Vince felt ill.

“This man on the left is the head of Colony Y – a state of the art integrated set of laboratories based up on Leadmore, North Avenue. Oh, thousand or so metrics away in Mesarthium. They’re part owned by the Canceron oil giant Plume and, up until this point, have operated without incidence for fifty years.”

Dr. Nixon Bluard’s face was hard to make out beneath the broken purple skin around his eyes and jaw. His nose was broken drowning what was left of his head in blood before he had eventually succumbed to a severe blow to the back of the head. It looked like sport rather than a hit. “Not an accident,” muttered Vince, examining the second man from a distance.

Detective Carlo, apparently not the least bit squeamish, dodged a pool of blood and squatted down beside the second victim. “This man was Bluard’s long term lab partner and former apprentice. He was Cancarion but spent a great deal of time here.”

“And you have no idea why or who killed these two?”

“I would not say that, Detective Moretti,” Carlo straightened up and led Vince out of the room and into one of the narrow corridors that connected the labs. “We know that they were killed. We know that it was not an act of industrial espionage.”

“How do you-” interrupted Vince, but he was silenced by a look.

“More importantly, we know that it has something to do with a certain letter set into circulation by the late First Lady several weeks ago.”

* * *

Vince watched a vicious cylinder of red dust trail across the horizon. Even at great distance, it dwarfed the city as its spiralling form continued to travel parallel to the mountainous ridge, occasionally stealing sand from its jagged slopes.

The office he was currently standing in was large and panoramic in its views with a massive one hundred and eighty degree outlook over the tapered spires and lapping dunes of Aerelon.

“This is all we have so far,” said Carlo, pushing through the glass doors of his office backwards whilst trying to balance several large files. He emptied them onto his desk, shuffling the largest to the side. A few seconds later he had pried a sheet of paper from another of them and handed it to Vince.

Vince’s eyes skimmed over Carlo’s untidy handwriting. “She was asking people to sign it?” he said finally, a confused look pressing itself into his hardened Caprican skin.

“From what I’ve been able to get out of some of Colony Y’s scientists, Ms. Procris was very interested in the fine print of the company’s trade agreement. She spent five hours on Aerelon a couple of days before her death pursuing Kobol knows not…”

“She was meeting Edward Naxos for a Quorum meeting,” said Vince decidedly, referring to his own notes.

“Yes, I have several eye witnesses that place her at that meeting – and several more that say she was absent for the better part of it.”

“Absent?” Vince flicked over his note book but there was no mention of it.

“One of our security guards opened the door for her as she left Parliament building alone and headed off in the vague direction of Colony Y’s premises. Granted, we have no evidence other than speculation to suggest that she was headed there, but I find it unlikely that a busy woman like her was just out for a stroll.”

“But what,” started Vince, setting the piece of paper on Carlo’s desk, “could possibly be on the piece of paper to make it worth signing? Do you think it’s a whistle blower’s statement? A couple of juicy pieces of wrought trade lines between Aerelon and Canceron? Matt mentioned that she was into that kind of thing.”

“Matt…?”

“Her head of security.”

Carlo shrugged, “Honestly, I haven’t the faintest what’s contained in that letter – but I’ll tell you this; it’s already got two people killed, maybe three.”

Vince’s eyes flared, “You believe this letter was responsible for her death?”

The other detective strode over to one of the window panels and placed both of his hands in his jean pockets. “That’s why I called for you.”

* * *

“You’re seriously just going to wait in the car?” Vince opened the door of the COL-5, sleek black sedan enough to slip his leg out.

Carlo continued to flick through the various radio channels. “Not a lot of crime in a city like Aerelon. The man you’re going to meet is one of the few repeat offenders to grace these streets and he’ll run on sight as soon as my ugly mug sneaks ‘round that corner.”

Vince rolled his eyes and stepped out of the car. He roamed around to the driver’s side, glancing at the street in a casual manner. “If my ass,” he said, leaning down next to Carlo’s wound down window, “ends up bleeding all over this foreign street, can I rely on you to catch the bad guy, solve these murders, haul me off to medical attention – that sort of thing?”

“Depends on the weather,” he replied, fishing in the side pocket for a packet of mints. He ripped the foil away from them, exposing a set of tightly packed, white spheres. “If it gets over forty degrees out there, I’m not even rolling down the window.”

Vince could see why. He used to think Caprican summers were hot, but a mild Aerelonian noon – that was toasty. He wasn’t sure if it was the unforgiving sky above, unwilling to deliver even a lone cloud or the unrelenting wind nosing through the streets that made the shortest of walks unpleasant. Vince couldn’t even bare to mention the sand and the many creative places it had found to chafe his body.

‘…Time – it’s a lika ocean of rock and we’re the ants, clawin’ over it. Oh, it’s clever lika woman but as final as the emptiness that you’re all seekin’ here today. I can’ give the woman, only the chiselled waves and a promise that you’ll find ‘em mossy and quick.’

Vince stopped short of the corner and pressed himself against the wall of a bricked terrace. This must be StreetMyth, he thought to himself as he edged along the wall. Vince hadn’t expected to have to deal with whatever slime ridden company the Encyclopaedia of Aerelonian crime might be keeping.

It was a good thing for Vince that the group of youths he found huddled around StreetMyth were so stoned that they didn’t even realise they should be running from a stranger bearing a detective’s badge. With a couple of large, threatening movements, he was able to shoo them away. StreetMyth remained stationary, clearly unconcerned with Vince’s presence.

“I am Detective Vince Moretti from the CDP – Caprican Division. Could you clarify your identity, sir?”

“I’m good for your soul,” replied StreetMyth, snapping an aluminium biscuit tin containing a suspicious blue powder shut.

“That’s too bad,” replied Vince, “because I don’t have one.”

He grabbed StreetMyth by the back of his threadbare shirt and slammed him up against the filthy wall. “That’s not sugar you’re handing out to those kids,” scowled Vince, snatching the container away from the struggling man.

StreetMyth blinked his pink eyes several times, then tilted his ghostly face into the shadows. “Not sweet enough for the gods’ chalice,” he replied, rubbing his face over the brick. “But dust falls like snow over the innocent.”

“I can lock you away in one of Picon’s deepest cells and leave you to rot among its ancient walls for all the lives you destroy with that shit.”

StreetMyth laughed, his piercing trill carrying high into the offices above. “To all the terrors of the world outside – I hold a light.”

“I need information. You need the freedom I’ve just taken away from you. Maybe we can strike a deal.”

“You want a path to take you straight, you pay the gardener.”

* * *

Aerelon Police Department

Present Day

“This – this not what we talk about.”

The interrogation rooms were larger and cleaner than those back on Caprica. They smelt of freshly moulded plastic and disinfectant. Their tables were devoid of the common rocking syndrome found amongst others of their kind. The perpetual fragrance of tobacco was replaced by cinnamon and charcoal. It was unloved.

The supposed, ‘StreetMyth’ had balanced one of the chairs unwisely on its back legs and extended his own onto the flawless surface of the interrogation table. Vince circled StreetMyth, running his hand over the rim of the precarious chair.

“Are we talking now?” said Vince, stopping directly behind the confused street rat. “I thought I was charging you with possession and distribution. How long do you think an antique like yourself would get for that sort of thing?”

StreetMyth folded his hands and laid them gently on his lap. “No man can tell when the sun will flare next.”

Vince applied pressure to the back of the chair and then quickly stepped to the side as it overbalanced and crashed to the floor, taking StreetMyth with it. “I can.”

“Ow – oh man! I’m – my head is bleeding.”

Carlo, who was attempting to lurk in one of the corners, turned his head away from the sight. Technically, if he didn’t see it – it never had to happen.

“Let us start again,” began Vince calmly as StreetMyth rolled painfully off his chair and crawled back to his feet. He righted the chair with one hand and then purposely slumped back into it with all four legs notably planted on the ground. “I am of the understanding that as a dealer in – don’t interrupt me, as a dealer in this shit, you know everyone and everything that goes on in this glorious city. So it would seem that somewhere within that ailing repository of knowledge is the information I am looking for.

“If you were to give me this information myth-free I might decide to let you out on parole for the night and, I don’t know, forget to collect you for your hearing tomorrow.”

StreetMyth seemed to consider this option with great interest.

“All righ’,” he mumbled finally, his voice lacking the usual inflections of bullshit. “I might of seen some new ones drag through here a couple of weeks back. They might have even stopped on my corner and me, in genuine friendliness, just could of blown a bit of dust their way. But they weren’t interested in my shit – said they were looking for someone – a lady.

“I said, I ain’t seen a lady in a suit since them brain hospital place. These guys were, you know, built for it and I not want my little fish ass chewed on by no sharks so I point in the direction of the great big science maze and I not seen any of them since then.”

Vince ran a hand subconsciously through his hair.”Did you ever see this woman?” He held out a small photograph of Colette Procris. StreetMyth shook his head vigorously – then nodded.

“I – on TV.”

Vince rolled his eyes. “Is there anything else you can tell us about the gentlemen you saw? You’ve got to give me something interesting or I’ll be morally obligated to handcuff your ass to that water cooler over there…”

“Everything they wore was brand new,” said StreetMyth, brushing his fingers past his nose. “Like they smell of – what that shit that you smell like now?”

“Who, me?” Detective Carlo took a few steps forward, sniffing his suit jacket arm.

Vince roamed over to him and caught a whiff. “Perchloroethylene ,” he muttered, urging StreetMyth to continue.

“Whatever man. And they all had long hair jelled back in rat tails. That’s all I know. Can I go now?”

“Perhaps – but there’s one last thing you’re going to do for us or that special snow of yours is going to freeze your assets if you catch my storm…”

Aerelon

Present Day

The Great Fountain was never allowed to flow over night. Desert air had a chill to it that loved to freeze over the smaller creatures of the night, trapping them where they stood on granules of sand. Sometimes the rising sun saved them – sometimes not.

StreetMyth licked the rough surface of the wall, hungrily sucking off its moisture to calm his cracked lips. A flash of gold caught his dilated pupil as the morning sun caught the building’s name plaque. StreetMyth blinked and ducked down. He ran his hand along the wall as he moved forward, tracing its edge around a corner until he stopped outside the side entrance of Colony Y. He quickly found a hidden spot and sank into the garden that ran the length of the building.

He waited there until the sun sat overhead, destroying the shadows he used for shelter. “Waste of time…” he muttered to himself, cracking open his tin and taking a sniff. His eyes trembled for a moment and his ears filled with a roar.

StreetMyth didn’t hear someone crunch over the sand and stop in front of him.

“Can I help you?” they said, slipping their hands into their lab coat. A security tag swung around his neck, flapping in the breeze.

StreetMyth felt a shadow come over him. He looked up. “Go way,” he muttered, batting the air in front of him as if in pursuit of a fly.

The scientist raised his eyebrows. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said. “You’re in our garden and I can’t, in good conscience, leave you there.”

“Go – go way. Busy waiting.” Above a cloud passed over and dimmed the world. StreetMyth snapped his head up, suddenly seeing the man in white. “You!” he pointed a bony finger. “You I wait for.”

The scientist took a step backwards, a little frightened by the homeless man. He didn’t like the way the man smelt of decaying refuse and the urgency with which he clutched a small tin.

“For me?” repeated the scientist dumbly. “What on Aerelon for?”

“They want to know about the letter.”

The scientist’s eyes glanced nervously to the bustling street in front of the building. “What letter?” he replied, neither moving closer nor backing away.

“How do I know?” shrugged StreetMyth. “They know though. They say you know many things.”

“I know nothing. Leave me alone.” He backed out of the garden and took out his mobile phone.

“They can help you, they want to as well, I can tell. But you have to go to them.”

The man’s finger hovered over the keypad. “Who is this they? You are crazy. I’m calling security.”

StreetMyth laughed. “No you’re not. You call this man instead. He tell me to say that Cris sent him.” StreetMyth pulled out a white card with a phone number scrawled across it. “You don’t want it? I leave it here then.” With that, StreetMyth levered himself off the ground, and scurried away through the fragmented gardens of Colony Y.

T H E – S O P H I S T
Chapter Ten

Caprica

Five days before the Murder

“Colette…”

Cris froze. Paul was leaning against her doorway, half hidden by the early morning light. A branch scraped over her window, squeaking against the glass.

“Oh,” she said, closing her desk drawer. “It’s you.”

President Paul Stravos watched his wife lean across the Cyderwood desk and search beneath a pile of papers. Eventually she pulled a sheet free, quickly folded it and stowed it in her hand bag. The soft light of the morning made her look young, like when he had first met her. They were different people now and sometimes he wondered if they had anything in common anymore. These days it felt like she was pulling against him, stuck in a stream he couldn’t touch and it hurt.

“Late night?” he asked, folding his arms. His crisp shirt crunched and his tie caught beneath his arms.

Cris flicked her eyes up in a stern glare. “Can we do this later?”

“Can we?”

She shook her head and snatched a folder from her locked filing cabinet. Cris pushed the drawer shut and turned the key, balancing the heavy object on her hip. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

“From where?”

“Aerelon.”

Paul felt his heart quicken a little as she approached. He noticed that she was wearing the same skirt and blouse that he had last seen her in. “Colette…” He pushed off the doorway, blocking her exit.

Cris walked into him, using her body and a sharp edged folder to push past. Paul winced as he was stabbed by re-enforced cardboard but remained steadfast. He could smell that faint scent of white lilies on her and the slightest wisp of salt.

“Don’t go just yet,” he pleaded quietly, placing his hand gently around her waist. She shifted closer to the doorframe, trying to duck around him. “You don’t want to go, not really.” He closed his eyes and lowered his head.

She let him stay there for a moment, resting on her. A familiar feeling lingered; it was warm and safe. There was a part of her that wanted to stay like this forever. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Canceron’s waters lap at her feet as they had done when Paul first saw her. The city lights faded into the backdrop of stars and the distant music of the party died with the background.

“I’m late,” she whispered, and slipped from his grasp.

* * *

Cris took the stairs to the top floor of Parliament building. A gust of freezing air hit her face as she pushed open the heavy door that emerged onto the roof. The force of the wind spun her around. She faced the great mountain range behind the city which embraced the scattered structures of Caprica’s capital. It was so beautiful – the first flocks of gulls taking off from the cliffs. They spread their winds and slipped through the sky, playing in the onshore wind.

A flash of light caught her attention. Cris turned back to the cement where her shuttle waited. The Captain flashed his lights once more and she smiled.

* * *

Matt felt a soft vibration and tilted his head to the rooftop in interest. The First Lady’s shuttle lifted gracefully off the cement and swung around to face the water. The shuttle’s shadow lengthened and then broke from the cement as the vessel cleared the rooftop and fell into the lines of traffic forming in the sky.

The colonel hit the glass with his fist. Heavy lids closed over his eyes as he leant upon the window. He wondered how many times she would fool him before the world came to its end.

Aerelon

Five days before the murder

“First Lady,” the man attired in a silk red vest and suit jacket nodded and opened the door for her. She crossed the foyer of Mesarthium’s Council Chambers and quickly met up with the crowd funnelling into the main hall.

“Excuse me,” she muttered, pushing past several people. Cris flashed her security pass and the crowd of robed people reluctantly parted.

It was Representative Naxos’s idea to call the Quorum to session on Aerelon. They had a beautiful hall for it – grand enough for the collective egos of the members present but sadly lacking in the architectural joy of the older buildings. Banners hung down from the walls, covering the cracked paint. They were all blood red, embroidered with Aerelon’s ram head stitched into the weave with a single gold thread. The words, ‘Wars of the sun cannot darken the days of night,’ appeared beneath and were repeated on the seal of the doors.

She stayed for the first of the speeches. A few eyes settled on her, some surprised to see her nestled amongst the public crowd. Cris grinned back at them. She had not been officially invited, but then, it always helped to know the host of the party.

Cris slipped out as Canceron’s member took the floor. Naxos caught her eye before she reached the door. He smiled warmly and nodded. She clutched her purse tightly and leant on the great doors, forcing them open.

A red sash of dust hung in the sky over the city. It smudged the otherwise flawless backdrop of the famous Aerelonian view. The buzz of shuttles thickened the air as she paced along the main street, ducking beneath the draped figures of trees, strangely green in the desert-like climate.

She smiled at the iron street lamps occupying every ten meters, they were copies of the city lights on Canceron. There was something friendly about them. The way their twisted metal clasped the glassy orbs was not possessive – it was tender. These were a gift of good faith. There was nothing she wanted more than to run her hand over their cool form as she turned the corner and caught sight of Colony Y.

Caprica

Five days before the murder

“Margaret?”

There was a shuffle of feet in the corridor outside the President’s office. A few moments later, a friendly face peaked through the open door.

“Yes Mr. President?”

Paul signed a couple of documents, swearing as his pen leaked leaving several black pools of ink over his desk. “Ah – tissues…” he muttered, pulling open his draw to find the box empty. His secretary stepped into the office and crossed the room. There, the Virgon woman ducked down to the bottom draw of one of the many cabinets and located a box of tissues.

She deposited the box beside the President. “Was there anything else, sir?” she asked politely, waiting for him to dab the black liquid up. It quickly soaked through the fine layers of tissue, staining his hands.

“I want you to send a small security detail to Aerelon at once,” said the President. “But do it very quietly – you understand?”

“I – are you sure?” She may not have been privy to the intricate political details between the planets of the colonies, but she heard enough to know that Aerelon would not welcome an unaccompanied security deploy regardless of how quiet they were.

“You go with them,” he added, to her surprise. “Take this to my wife and send it with my love.”

Paul folded a piece of paper in half, slipped it into an unsealed envelope and handed it to Margaret. She hesitated before taking it from him. Margaret folded the flap of the envelope closed, sealing its contents inside.

Without a word she retreated to the door, letting her hand slip over its polished finish. “I,” she started, turning back towards the man behind the desk. A heavy scent had suddenly swept passed her, strangling the air. It was a thousand thoughts entwined between cinnamon and midnight. “But I don’t know where she is…”

The incense stick beside the President gently smoked. “Find out.”

* * *

“Tickets please.”

Matt foraged about in his pockets, pulling out every item imaginable except for the slender Spacelink ticket. The ticket collector tapped his feet and diverted his weary eyes as Matt deposited his side arm on the seat next to his CDP badge.

“Just – I have it here somewhere,” he said, taking off his jacket and standing up. The shuttle roof was low and met his head hard.

The ticket collector snatched a glance at his watch and bent down to peak out the shuttle window. Four minutes until take off and people still couldn’t find their frakking tickets. Hadn’t they been listening to the speaker blaring out since they stepped on board? Even the beautiful flight attendants at the gates stressed the importance of – “Thank you sir.”

Matt handed his tickets over to be scanned. A bead of sweat slipped over his bald scalp and dripped onto his off-pink shirt. All of his possessions were littered across his seat and some managed to infringe upon other disgruntled passengers.

“Uh, thank you,” Matt muttered, as a business man held up his missing wallet.

The large Spacelink shuttle lumbered off the ground, clipping the safety rail on its way out of the airport. Matt averted his eyes and pretended not to notice as the vehicle lurched. Discretely tightening his seat belt, he pulled out his phone and tried to pull up a map a map of Aerelon. He was glared at shortly after by a hostess who pointed to the sign above his head which had a large red X through the word, ‘electronic devices’.

Aerelon

Five days before the murder

Colette Procris watched the shadows play in the small park outside the building. The deep velvet flowers poking up from the low garden beds rippled in the strong breeze, bending their delicate heads towards the ground. The air was fiercely warm, almost suffocating after the morning whispers of Caprica City.

She sat rigidly on the park bench. The two planks of palm wood creaked as she bent forward to pick a dried leaf off the sand. The world was harsh, she thought, as she crumbled the star shaped form. Its brittle skeleton shattered beneath her fingers and scattered into the wind.

There was a crunch behind her and Cris turned to see Doctor Urlchen leave the pebbled path and stride toward her. She stood and met him halfway.

“Doctor,” she nodded. He looked straight through her to the sparse park behind. Cris took his trembling hand and shook it firmly, managing to catch his fidgeting eyes.

“If we’re going to do this,” he said, handing her a security pass, “then we do it quickly.”

Cris nodded and they set off toward the building.

* * *

Colony Y was immense. It was difficult to appreciate its size from the busy streets that hemmed it in as – like an iceberg, the better part of its structure was submerged. Security was tighter than at parliament. Despite her title she was searched thoroughly and all of her possessions logged in. Doctor Urlchen was treated with similar suspicion even though his great grandfather was one of the company’s original sponsors.

Finally they made it to the elevator. They shuffled in amongst a dozen other passengers and allowed themselves to be backed into the corner as the metal doors snapped shut. Urlchen waited for the last person to shuffle out before he leant past Cris and hit one of the bottommost buttons.

They didn’t speak until the whizzing noise of the elevator became a loud buzz. Cris guessed that they were approaching freefall as her stomach turned.

“How do you even know I’ve got what you’re after?” said the scientist suddenly. For some reason, he didn’t like looking her and so held a stern gaze with the slightly reflective doors. His own ghostly shadow shivered back, rocking slightly as the lift light trailed down the string of numbers by the door.

Cris watched the lift’s yellow light flicker. “Because you agreed to see me,” she replied. “You and I both know that this has to stop. Our colonies are allies and someone is trying to rip us apart. I know who that someone is – but you can prove it.”

“What if I won’t?”

“You don’t want a civil war,” said Cris quietly. “The President doesn’t want to go to war and I most certainly would like to avoid one at all costs. There’s enough blood in the worlds as it is.”

“Not enough oil though,” he quipped.

The doors slipped open. The harsh light of the lower floor hurt her eyes as Urlchen led right to the end. There was a shuffle of keys and soon after she found herself standing in a cluttered storage room. Disorganised boxes hung over sets of shelves that worked their way up toward the ceiling while locked filing cabinets of varying sizes sat snugly together at the far end.

“What is this place?” she asked, running her fingers over the lid of a box only to have them coated in dust.

“One of the old filing centres. We’re required to keep all our records but these ones are so old that no one is ever going to be in need of them. It was the only place I could think of that might keep this safe.” He heaved a few boxes to the ground and reached to the back of the shelf. There was a loud ripping noise as he pulled a small wooden box free.

The box was beautifully ornate even with the tape strapped over its lid. Cris took it from him, but did not open it. She slid it into her purse and waited as Urlchen replaced the filing boxes.

“I’m only giving this to you because I believe you can make a difference. The truth is never pleasant and either way ma’am, you’re going to get a war. I think you know that. You’ve got to ask yourself whether it’s the right one.”

Cris shook her head and took him gently by the arm. She was taller than he had imagined from what he had seen and far more beautiful. There was something wild in her eyes that unsettled him, a danger that was always looking for an excuse to reach out.

T H E – S O P H I S T
Chapter Ten

Caprica

Five days before the Murder

“Colette…”

Cris froze. Paul was leaning against her doorway, half hidden by the early morning light. A branch scraped over her window, squeaking against the glass.

“Oh,” she said, closing her desk drawer. “It’s you.”

President Paul Stravos watched his wife lean across the Cyderwood desk and search beneath a pile of papers. Eventually she pulled a sheet free, quickly folded it and stowed it in her hand bag. The soft light of the morning made her look young, like when he had first met her. They were different people now and sometimes he wondered if they had anything in common anymore. These days it felt like she was pulling against him, stuck in a stream he couldn’t touch and it hurt; a current rushing eastwards pulling the worlds with it.

“Late night?” he asked, folding his arms. His crisp shirt creased while his tie strained, caught in the fray.

Cris flicked her eyes up in a stern glare. “Can we do this later?”

“Can we?”

She shook her head and snatched a folder from her locked filing cabinet. Cris pushed the drawer shut and turned the key, balancing the heavy object on her hip. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

“From where?”

“Aerelon.”

Paul felt his heart quicken a little as she approached. He noticed that she was wearing the same skirt and blouse that he had last seen her in. “Colette…” He pushed off the doorway, blocking her exit.

Cris walked into him, using her body and a sharp edged folder to push past. Paul winced as he was stabbed by re-enforced cardboard but remained steadfast. He could smell that faint scent of white lilies on her and the slightest wisp of salt.

“Don’t go just yet,” he pleaded quietly, placing his hand gently around her waist. She shifted closer to the doorframe, trying to duck around him. “You don’t want to go, not really.” He closed his eyes and lowered his head.

She let him stay there for a moment, resting on her. A familiar feeling lingered; it was warm and safe. There was a part of her that wanted to stay like this forever. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel Canceron’s waters lap at her feet as they had done when Paul first saw her. The city lights faded into the backdrop of stars and the distant music of the party died with the background. A sea rocked with three moons sinking into the dark water.

“I’m late,” she whispered, and slipped from his grasp.

* * *

Cris took the stairs to the top floor of Parliament building. A gust of freezing air hit her face as she pushed open the heavy door that emerged onto the roof. The force of the wind spun her around. She faced the great mountain range behind the city which embraced the scattered structures of Caprica’s capital. It was so beautiful – the first flocks of gulls taking off from the cliffs. They spread their winds and slipped through the sky, playing in the onshore wind.

A flash of light caught her attention. Cris turned back to the cement where her shuttle waited. The Captain flashed his lights once more and she smiled.

* * *

Matt felt a soft vibration and tilted his head to the rooftop in interest. The First Lady’s shuttle lifted gracefully off the cement and swung around to face the water. The shuttle’s lights pried away the dawn as it broke from the cement. The vessel cleared the rooftop and fell into the lines of traffic forming in the sky.

The colonel hit the glass with his fist. Heavy lids closed over his eyes as he leant upon the window. He wondered how many times she would fool him before this world came to its end.

Aerelon

Five days before the murder

“First Lady,” the man attired in a silk red vest and suit jacket nodded and opened the door for her. She crossed the foyer of Mesarthium’s Council Chambers and quickly met up with the crowd funnelling into the main hall.

“Excuse me,” she muttered, pushing past several people. Cris flashed her security pass and the crowd of robed people reluctantly parted.

It was Representative Naxos’s idea to call the Quorum to session on Aerelon. They had a beautiful hall for it – grand enough for the collective egos of the members present but sadly lacking in the architectural joy of the older buildings. Banners hung down from the walls, covering the cracks of past turmoil. They were all blood red, embroidered with Aerelon’s ram head stitched into the weave with a single gold thread. The words, ‘Wars of the sun cannot darken the days of night,’ appeared beneath and were repeated on the seal of the doors.

She stayed for the first of the speeches. A few eyes settled on her, some surprised to see her nestled amongst the public crowd. Cris grinned back at them. She had not been officially invited, but then, it always helped to know the host of the party.

Cris slipped out as Canceron’s member took the floor. Naxos caught her eye before she reached the door. He smiled warmly and nodded. She clutched her purse tightly and leant on the great doors, forcing them open.

A red sash of dust hung in the sky over the city. It smudged the otherwise flawless backdrop of the famous Aerelonian view. The buzz of shuttles thickened the air as she paced along the main street, ducking beneath the draped figures of trees, strangely green in the desert-like climate.

She smiled at the iron street lamps occupying every ten meters, they were copies of the city lights on Canceron. There was something friendly about them. The way their twisted metal clasped the glassy orbs was not possessive – it was tender. These were a gift of good faith. There was nothing she wanted more than to run her hand over their cool form as she turned the corner and caught sight of Colony Y.

Caprica

Five days before the murder

“Margaret?”

There was a shuffle of feet in the corridor outside the President’s office. A few moments later, a friendly face peaked through the open door.

“Yes Mr. President?”

Paul signed a couple of documents, swearing as his pen leaked leaving several black pools of ink over his desk. “Ah – tissues…” he muttered, pulling open his drawer to find the box empty. His secretary stepped into the office and crossed the room. There, the Virgon woman ducked down to the bottom drawer of one of the many cabinets and located a box of tissues.

She deposited the box beside the President. “Was there anything else, sir?” she asked politely, waiting for him to dab the black liquid up. It quickly soaked through the fine layers of tissue, staining his hands.

“I want you to send a small security detail to Aerelon at once,” said the President. “But do it very quietly – you understand?”

“I – are you sure?” She may not have been privy to the intricate political details between the planets of the colonies, but she heard enough to know that Aerelon would not welcome an unaccompanied security deploy regardless of how quiet they were.

“You go with them,” he added, to her surprise. “Take this to my wife and send it with my love.”

Paul folded a piece of paper in half, slipped it into an unsealed envelope and handed it to Margaret. She hesitated before taking it from him. Margaret folded the flap of the envelope closed, sealing its contents inside.

Without a word she retreated to the door, letting her hand slip over its polished finish. “I,” she started, turning back towards the man behind the desk. A heavy scent had suddenly swept passed her, strangling the air. It was a thousand thoughts entwined between cinnamon and midnight. “But I don’t know where she is…”

The incense stick beside the President gently smoked. “Find out.”

* * *

“Tickets please.”

Matt foraged about in his pockets, pulling out every item imaginable except for the slender Spacelink ticket. The ticket collector tapped his feet and diverted his weary eyes as Matt deposited his side arm on the seat next to his CDP badge.

“Just – I have it here somewhere,” he said, taking off his jacket and standing up. The shuttle roof was low and met his head hard.

The ticket collector snatched a glance at his watch and bent down to peak out the shuttle window. Four minutes until take off and people still couldn’t find their frakking tickets. Hadn’t they been listening to the speaker blaring out since they stepped on board? Even the beautiful flight attendants at the gates stressed the importance of – “Thank you sir.”

Matt handed his tickets over to be scanned. A bead of sweat slipped over his bald scalp and dripped onto his off-pink shirt. All of his possessions were littered across his seat and some managed to infringe upon other disgruntled passengers.

“Uh, thank you,” Matt muttered, as a business man held up his missing wallet.

The large Spacelink shuttle lumbered off the ground, clipping the safety rail on its way out of the airport. Matt averted his eyes and pretended not to notice as the vehicle lurched. Discretely tightening his seat belt, he pulled out his phone and tried to pull up a map a map of Aerelon. He was glared at shortly after by a hostess who pointed to the sign above his head which had a large red X through the word, ‘electronic devices’.

Aerelon

Five days before the murder

Colette Procris watched the shadows play in the small park outside the building. The deep velvet flowers poking up from the low garden beds rippled in the strong breeze, bending their delicate heads towards the ground. The air was fiercely warm, almost suffocating after the morning whispers of Caprica City.

She sat rigidly on the park bench. The two planks of palm wood creaked as she bent forward to pick a dried leaf off the sand. The world was harsh, she thought, as she crumbled the star shaped form. Its brittle skeleton shattered beneath her fingers and scattered into the wind.

There was a crunch behind her and Cris turned to see Doctor Urlchen leave the pebbled path and stride toward her. She stood and met him halfway.

“Doctor,” she nodded. He looked straight through her to the sparse park behind. Cris took his trembling hand and shook it firmly, managing to catch his fidgeting eyes.

“If we’re going to do this,” he said, handing her a security pass, “then we do it quickly.”

Cris nodded and they set off toward the building.

* * *

Colony Y was immense. It was difficult to appreciate its size from the busy streets that hemmed it in as – like an iceberg, the better part of its structure was submerged. Security was tighter than at parliament and despite her title she was searched thoroughly with all of her possessions logged in. Doctor Urlchen was treated with similar suspicion even though his great grandfather was one of the company’s original sponsors.

Finally they made it to the elevator. They shuffled in amongst a dozen other passengers and allowed themselves to be backed into the corner as the metal doors snapped shut. Urlchen waited for the last person to shuffle out before he leant past Cris and hit one of the bottommost buttons.

They didn’t speak until the whizzing noise of the elevator became a loud buzz. Cris guessed that they were approaching freefall as her stomach turned.

“How do you even know I’ve got what you’re after?” said the scientist suddenly. For some reason, he didn’t like looking at her and so held a stern gaze with the slightly reflective doors. His own ghostly shadow shivered back, rocking slightly as the lift light trailed down the string of numbers by the door.

Cris watched the lift’s yellow light flicker. “Because you agreed to see me,” she replied. “You and I both know that this has to stop. Our colonies are allies and someone is trying to rip us apart. I know who that someone is – but you can prove it.”

“What if I won’t?”

“You don’t want a civil war,” said Cris quietly. “The President doesn’t want to go to war and I most certainly would like to avoid one at all costs. There’s enough blood in the worlds as it is.”

“Not enough oil though,” he quipped.

The doors slipped open. The harsh light of the lower floor hurt her eyes as Urlchen led right to the end. There was a shuffle of keys and soon after she found herself standing in a cluttered storage room. Disorganised boxes hung over sets of shelves that worked their way up toward the ceiling while locked filing cabinets of varying sizes sat snugly together at the far end.

“What is this place?” she asked, running her fingers over the lid of a box only to have them coated in dust.

“One of the old filing centres. We’re required to keep all our records in hard copy but these ones are so obsolete that no one is ever going to be in need of them. Not unless the world ends.” He laughed dryly and then counted the boxes as the paced down the aisle. “It was the only place I could think of that might keep this safe.” He heaved a few boxes to the ground and reached to the back of the shelf. There was a loud ripping noise as he pulled a small wooden box free.

The box was beautifully ornate even with the tape strapped over its lid. Cris took it from him, but did not open it. She slid it into her purse and waited as Urlchen replaced the filing boxes which gave off plumes of dust ridden air.

“I’m only giving this to you because I believe you can make a difference. The truth is never pleasant and either way ma’am, you’re going to get a war. I think you know that. You’ve got to ask yourself whether it’s the right one.”

Cris shook her head and took him gently by the arm. She was taller than he had imagined from what he had seen and far more beautiful. There was something wild in her eyes that unsettled him, a danger that was always looking for an excuse to reach out.

“There is no ‘right’,” she whispered. “Only opinion.”

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that it’s only those prepared to fight for their opinions that control the tide?”

“No. I was going to ask you who else knew about this.”

Urlchen hesitated. “I guess you’ll see when you open it so there’s no harm in saying. Nixon Bluard is the one who first showed it to me. He and I signed it to declare it authenticity. I suggest you do the same. Only problem is, you’re going to need more than a couple of scrawls from Aerelonian scientists.”

Cris smiled and released the doctor. “Yes, I realise that.”

“Well,” Urlchen herded her out the door. “You better hurry up then. The sooner you get that thing away from here the better. I’ve got terrible acid just knowing where it is. They never told me when I wanted to be a bioengineer that I’d have to play war games.”

“I thought it was on the general ‘welcome to life’ memo.” Cris flashed a wad of notes passed him but the glare she received in return told her that he wasn’t remotely interested. “Take care.”

“I’m taking a holiday – get my neck out of this chopping board ‘till things quiet down. You should do the same. You may be the President’s wife but that won’t save you from these people.”

* * *

“Just missed her,” said Edward Naxos, sipping his tea as the President’s secretary encroached into one of the large rooms that fitted in along the window lined wing of the council chambers. Built of red sandstone, the walls were coarse with forgotten river pebbles from streams long dead.

The dust of the room was held back by a breeze slipping through the open panels on the floor to ceiling window. This side of the building was in shade and the world outside appeared soft and at peace. Inside, Naxos took a biscuit from his saucer and dipped it into the steaming liquid.

“Perhaps you could try later?” he said, taking a bite of the soggy item. Crumbs showered the tea, saucer and floor.

Two sets of heavy curtains were tied back with gold cords. Their enormous accompanying tassels sagged toward the polished floorboards.

“It is important,” Margaret pleaded. Her honest eyes might have tempted someone less shrewd. The President’s secretary closed the door behind her and left Naxos to his supposedly empty room.

The lofty room remained empty for at least five minutes with nothing but the sound of Naxos sipping to keep the hum of the traffic outside company. Then a curtain shifted and a figure untangled from the fabric.

“Did you get it?” said Naxos to the moving curtain.

Colette appeared, somewhat ruffled.

“You were right,” she said, brandishing the box.

“And you’re being followed – did you know that?”

She dropped her eyes to the floor and took a step forward. “Yes, Epeius caught me on the corner of York and Ruin. He didn’t say anything but I could tell he’d been following me.”

“That’s very interesting.” Naxos set his tea down on a convenient table beside. “Because your loving husband has set a security detail on you spearheaded by his faithful secretary. So much for all that work leaving the Colonel behind.”

Colette collapsed into a chair opposite. “Gods damn.”

“Your delicate web is beautifully crafted Ms. Procris, but be careful of wasps breaking those silvery extensions.”

“And what are you, then?”

Naxos smiled and took the wooden box she handed him. “Just another spider.”

* * *

Cris lost sight of the red world as the ship veered toward Caprica’s star system. The wooden box sat snugly between her fingers as she rolled it over and over hearing something heavy slide with each pass.

Caprica

Five days before the murder

“Four hours almost exactly,” she said, sliding down the glass pane. It was midday in Caprica and the city bells tolled from the temples. “That’s when I got back here. This was two hours ago. One might be tempted to ask where have you been, Colonel?”

Colonel Matthew Lenard was tired from travelling and sick of being left behind. “Where were you?”

“Nowhere…” she blinked.

“Nowhere,” he copied in a voice higher than usual.

“If you and I were both nowhere, it’s a wonder we didn’t bump into each other.”

The flash of excitement in her eyes made it difficult for him to refuse her a thing – including her love of secrets.

“A wonder,” he smiled back as his breathing returned to normal. The worry that he had for her almost killed him every time she vanished but he was sure that he would never tell her.

Cris reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew a small wooden box just far enough for him to see before she buried again. “Come on,” she whispered, hinting toward the lift.

Present Day
Virgon Planet Astraea

The sky went dark. A bright crescent of light became a glowing ring as Astreaea’s star all but disappeared beneath Themis. The great celestial body took on a greenish hue as the sun’s light beat against its opposing face and snuck around its edges. Matt could see the planet’s scar now, a chasm of black ripped through its polar region where the green became shallower and the earth harsher.

The darkness lasted only a moment. Street lights clicked on and filled the city with a white glow. The world around barely blinked as this spectacular dance began. Slow steps became graceful sweeps of movement as Astraea and Themis circled one another backed by the curtain of the universe and an applause of stars.

Colonel Matthew Lenard thought it was beautiful. The most powerful man in the Colonies could not halt this motion. These bodies were locked to each other by the most lonely forces, kept separate by time.

He didn’t know why, but he cried. All the wisdom in the universe could not whisper to the past.