EVERY OTHER colonial babbles. So why aren’t these people talking? Around the table the Chosen’s cabinet sits in varying degrees of unease.
At my right shoulder a minister busies himself by alternately doodling flowers on his Sheet and tapping the erase button with his stylus. To my left Vanderslice folds and then unfolds a napkin.
The spitball king’s puffy face, his rounded body, seem inflated by the pressures of self-importance. His small hazel eyes pick me apart. “So,” he says at last. “The man who arrested Reece Wallace. Impressive.” His voice is a surprisingly effeminate tenor.
All eyes, even those of the Minister of Doodling, shift.
“Yes.”
Vanderslice is the only one of the group who smiles. The others’ apprehensive gazes dart to the man at the head of the table.
What have I said that annoys him? The Chosen of God scowls. His scowl continues long past where it should have stopped. It pulls the heavy lips down and down.
“I see you are impolite, Major. Earthers. So vulgar. So full of yourselves.” Marvin taps a manicured fingernail on the table. “Well. In spite of that, we require a quick end to this thing. And I would hope you’re bright enough to see through the gossip.” Gossip? I glance around. No one is looking my way, and they are doing so pointedly, as if afraid my very eyes might damn them. All the cabinet but Vanderslice. The Minister of Science is atypically silent. His handsome face is daydreamy calm. It looks as if he has imagined someplace nicer to be, and then has escaped there.
“I want to know how you plan to proceed.” The Chosen steeples his pudgy hands.
“Milos Arne will review the data on the explosions themselves. When he determines the certain-kill radii, then we hope our statistics man can find some patterns.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll follow the patterns with our psychic. When it’s time for the interrogations, I’ll conduct them. I will conduct them alone, you understand. Without any help from the locals.”
I expect anger, but Marvin’s rage explodes in an unforeseen direction. “Is that it?”
“What?”
“Is that all you plan to do? Find your radii or whatever and then follow your nonsensical patterns? What if the explosions were random?”
“There is no randomness, sir. Terrorist acts and serial murders contain an internal motif. Finding that motif, no matter how absurd it appears on the surface, is what our statistical criminologist was a genius at. That’s why he was constructed.”
“Abomination.” The Chosen of God slumps. His belly forms a moat of fat below his chest. “Constructing a man. It’s an abomination. I ask you, where is the soul in all of that?”
Beagle’s soul. Is that why Yi named me team leader? No. HF isn’t that diplomatic.
“I suppose you’d have to ask the construct, sir, and see if he has discovered his.”
The Chosen of God shoots to his feet. The ministers cower. The man to my right stops doodling. He hits the erase button, then industriously writes at the top of his Sheet INVESTIGATION. He underlines this twice and stabs a colon on the end.
“A psychic and a construct.” The Chosen’s lips purse in disgust. “And you, like Lucifer, are rotten with the sin of pride. I wonder if you haven’t made up your mind already.” I tense as Marvin stalks his way to my side of the table.
The doodler begins writing furiously. Under INVESTIGATION: he prints LUCIFER? SOULS? The Chosen pauses to look at his minister’s Sheet, sees that it is good, and walks on.
“Haven’t you?” he asks me. “Haven’t you made up your mind as to who is guilty?”
“May I ask a question here?”
Sullen silence from the Chosen. Alarm from the others.
“Was I misinformed? Or didn’t you request our help?”
Everyone is looking at me, their faces, their bodies still. Marvin is standing so close I can feel the warmth from his body. I refuse to look up. Instead, I tilt my coffee cup toward me. There’s a single swallow of coffee at the bottom, long gone cold. Some people on Earth would have killed for that swallow.
Then I notice, almost peripherally, that the Chosen’s hand is trembling. “What religion are you, Major?”
What’s scaring him? “Is that germane?”
“Are you afraid of my question?”
“Not afraid. I’m taken aback. I’m insulted. I normally don’t think in terms of religion. I can’t afford to.”
“Afford to, Major? You mean you can’t fit murder in the divine plan, isn’t that it? You look at Earth’s violence and wonder where faith comes in. Well, this isn’t Earth. We’re a God-fearing community. If you wish to solve these crimes, it would be best if you understood that.”
The Chosen walks to the door. The ministers rise. I watch Marvin leave with all his retinue but Vanderslice.
“Excellency?” I call.
He pops back in the doorway.
“If your people are so God-fearing, why are they killing each other?”
I don’t know if he lacks an answer or if he’s too furious for speech. The doors shut on that extraordinary scowl.
Next to me, Vanderslice lowers his head to his crossed arms. His shoulders shake with silent laughter.