Chapter 107 Record

Bob the police officer stared at the corpse sprawled in the blood-soaked ground and gave a faint shake of his head. “This is the fourth one,” murmured the young policeman standing nearby.

Three days had passed since the bug race assault, and Perlan City was still far from healed. New survivors were being settled in, the shock of the invasion had barely ebbed. Yet at that very moment four separate incidents had occurred in quick succession: enraged crowds dragging mercenaries—men who had never even met David—to their deaths for carrying out kidnapping contracts on him.

These were the same mercenaries who had purchased intelligence from street dealers and been spotted, only to be torn apart before they could flee. In this city no exoskeletal armor could withstand a swarm of ordinary citizens. Around every intelligence-selling stall now lingered small groups of people, waiting for the next target to appear.

“Handle it as attempted murder, exactly like the first three,” Bob ordered, nodding. His eyes drifted to the police hover-car parked a short distance away—Kush’s senior-officer vehicle. Professional instinct told him something was off. Kush had reached the scene, stood at a distance, and now watched the scene with an expression he could not quite conceal. How could he possibly hide it from Bob, who had investigated so many cases?

Could the mercenary be connected to Kush? If Kush had not stolen his promotion, Bob would never have given him a second glance. Yet the thought of that betrayal still rankled, and the sight of Kush’s strange reaction had kindled a new idea.

Kush had never imagined anyone was watching. He had not foreseen that David would wield such influence inside Perlan City, nor that these mercenaries would dare come here to buy information directly. Exposure did not concern him. Mercenaries who failed were simply incompetent; the truly skilled would simply become more discreet. Only Jeremy’s sudden disappearance inside Perlan City had stripped the organization of its local control, forcing Kush to use mercenaries in the first place.

He would double the reward once the task was done, he thought.

He did not operate through his own identity bracelet because certain special Celestial Net addresses could be traced automatically. Such matters were secret to ordinary citizens, yet Kush understood them perfectly. Familiar with police procedure, he knew the optical brain in his office was the safest; at his rank only the chief had access. He would not wait.

Bob watched Kush drive away, gave brief instructions to the young policeman at his side, and climbed into his own hover-car.

Back at the station he headed straight for the information-security chamber, the nerve center of the entire force. A dedicated Celestial Net defense grid linked it to every police installation across the Pebble Star. Even the most formidable electronic-warfare specialist would hesitate to claim he could breach it.

“Haywood,” Bob greeted the stout security officer with a smile, “can I borrow old Harlow’s optical-brain logs? I inherited the case and need to know how far he got.”

Haywood’s expression hardened. Granting such a request was technically a privacy violation. Yet old Harlow had retired, and Bob enjoyed a good reputation inside the department.

“I’ll show it to you,” Haywood muttered, fingers dancing across the console, “but I won’t admit I did.”

Bob had no interest in the retired officer’s records. The optical brain and its entire office had now been reassigned to Kush. The senior officer had arrived during the bug-race assault; his unit had not transferred identities—an anomaly that would have been noticed under normal circumstances. The scale of the invasion had swallowed every other concern; half the station’s personnel were occupied with survivor logistics, and no one cared about a trivial change of ownership. Even Haywood was too busy to notice.

“Thanks, Haywood. Drinks on me later,” Bob said, rising.

“Everyone’s here—go ahead and look. I have to run over there.” Haywood waved him into a seat and walked off.

Bob’s fingers flew across the interface, pulling up old Harlow’s browsing history. He soon found the trail: after Kush’s arrival at the station, every query had circled the same two cases—Mr. Si’s murder and the disappearance of Jeremy, the fitness trainer. David’s file had been opened again and again. Three days earlier, the very day the first mercenary fell, Kush had logged into the Celestial Net mercenary station.

Bob glanced at the busy Haywood, copied the entire record into his own identity bracelet, and left the chamber.

Haywood finished his work, erased every trace Bob had left, and shook his head. As an internal-security officer he knew exactly who now used that optical brain, yet he chose not to intervene. Internal politics were none of his concern, and Bob was his friend. A small cleanup was the least he could do.

“David, are you home?” Bob’s message reached the identity bracelet as he drove toward the residential district.

“I’m at home now,” David answered almost instantly.

David had emerged from the underground gym, showered, and was waiting in the main hall when Bob arrived.

“David—long time no see,” Bob greeted him with a warm smile. Though he did not bow, his gratitude was genuine. Without David’s courage the officer’s family, his home, and everything he held dear would have been destroyed in the bug-race onslaught. That was one reason he had moved so quickly the moment he suspected Kush’s interest in the young man.