CHAPTER 001
OBJECTION!
“Please answer the question, Mr. Miller.”
The AutoJudge’s monotone smashed through the last wisps of my daydream like a cudgel through cobwebs. I snapped to attention, trying like hell to look sorry for zoning out in the middle of cross-examination. I wasn’t really sure for who. The presiding AI wasn’t programmed to account for shame, and the defense attorney staring daggers at me seemed unfamiliar with the concept. She’d wasted the last half hour trying to get me to trip over my sworn statement to no avail. It didn’t matter how many times she repeated or rephrased her interrogation, my answers would remain the same.
Not that I held it against her. I understood the game. It wasn’t that long ago that I was a regular fixture at the courthouse. As a senior field operative for the elite Sol Detective Agency, I’d frequently found myself on the witness stand, laying out key evidence against whatever villain of the week I’d been charged with taking out of commission. It never really got any easier—getting grilled in public, having each and every one of your words dissected and put on display—but it certainly got more familiar. Kind of like banging your shin against the same corner of your bedframe once a week, every week, for the rest of your life.
“Mr. Miller.”
The venom dripping from the lawyer’s voice was a harsh departure from the judge’s cool detachment.
“Apologies,” I said, struggling to suppress a bastard’s grin. “Would you mind repeating the question?”
While she indulged my request through clenched teeth, I glanced out into the gallery. My partner was nowhere to be seen. He was never much for these stodgy affairs, much preferring the freewheeling nature of active investigations to the grim bureaucratic spectacle that inevitably followed. I could hardly blame him.
If I hadn’t given him a ride myself I’d have been concerned that he’d skipped out altogether. But I had, even stopping for breakfast on the way before his unsubtle insistence gave way to outright whining. He could be a bit much at times, sure, but he’d stuck by me through the worst of it. After the explosion. After I left the SDA. If that meant showing up to court late with crumbs on my tie and bacon grease on my fingers, so be it.
I kept scanning the faces in the gallery as I fended off another round of the lawyer’s scrutiny. I made sure to point out each of the minor inconsistencies between my testimony and her version of it, no matter how trivial. A casual observer might have forgiven the seemingly harmless discrepancies, but I knew better than to let them slide. Whether or not a certain conversation took place on a Tuesday evening or a Wednesday afternoon was far less important than whether or not I could keep my story straight, even when it was being told back to me in a crooked fashion.
Her current line of questioning apparently reached its conclusion. A thin, insincere smile creased her face before she turned and retreated to her table. I peered over her shoulder but still could not spot my partner amongst the sparse crowd. There were plenty of empty seats in the public section, a far cry from the standing-room-only audiences that packed the high-profile criminal proceedings formerly requiring my attention, but the front row was full. He was short enough that he might be obscured by other spectators. Or perhaps he’d stepped out to use the bathroom.
I drummed my fingers against the railing of the witness box, waiting for the defense lawyer to formally conclude her questioning. Only then would the AutoJudge instruct me to step down. Instead, she leaned over and whispered something to her co-counsel, a white-haired gentleman in slate seersucker. He must have been pushing 110, but a lucrative career in law allowed him to afford the sort of medications and cybernetic implants that would postpone retirement indefinitely. He held up a finger as he fiddled with an outdated piece of hardware bolted to one temple before gesturing for her to repeat herself. When she did, he nodded solemnly.
She wheeled back around, a devilish gleam now in her eye. Whatever it was that inspired her newfound confidence meant nothing good for me.
“Mr. Miller, is it true that, until fairly recently, you were an employee of the Sol Detective Agency?”
“I suppose that depends on how you define the word ‘fairly.’”
A non-answer to a leading question seemed fair to me. I wasn’t sure exactly how reminding the court that I once worked for one of the system’s most revered law enforcement agencies helped her cause, but I certainly didn’t plan on offering assistance.
She smirked. I like to think it was because she appreciated the challenge I posed. Steamrolling private citizens with the same ham-fisted tactics time after time must get old after a while.
“Let me rephrase.” She closed the gap between us with slow strides, in search of a precise phrasing that left no room for my smartass remarks. “You were previously employed by the Sol Detective Agency, yes or no?”
Not much wiggle room there. Not that I needed it.
I leaned toward the microphone. “Yes.”
A quick survey of the front rows showed no signs of shock. I was still somewhat of a public figure, especially for the court reporters who remembered me from back then. I recognized a couple of them as well, though not by name. One face among them I could not place belonged to a young woman staring at me through exquisite almond-shaped eyes. The press credentials clipped to the lapel of her jacket were impossible to read from that distance but implied that she was there in some official capacity. I noticed no notepad or recording device.
That didn’t mean much. By the early 2300s, cyberware had gone mainstream. Now thirty years later, microscopic retinal cameras that could record everything their wearer saw and heard were old news. Still, it was odd that she was totally empty-handed. Journalists, like me, tended to be a bit more old-school in their methods. Video and audio uploads could be tweaked with minimal effort by a competent hacker, sometimes even before the owner got a chance to see the original. Having access to one’s impressions of a situation in the moment was often the only defense against tampering.
That wasn’t to say there was anything in this case that would encourage such interference. It was a straightforward affair. A janitor for James Madison Defense Systems had been caught lending his access pass after a small fortune in components went missing from their Earthside research and development lab. There was no great criminal conspiracy at play, just an underpaid blue-collar schmuck trying to cash in on the few resources he had at his disposal. This sort of low-level crime would normally not see the inside of a courtroom. It was only at the insistence of Madison’s new CEO, Vance Wilder, that it did. After stepping into his late father’s position, he’d made it his personal mission to demonstrate strength at every turn. If that meant putting the screws to a career broom-pusher, then so be it.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
“Could you please explain to the court your reasons for leaving the SDA?”
I’d fucking prefer not to.
“Personal reasons,” I managed after a brief hesitation. I knew it wouldn’t hold up but it might give my spiked blood pressure time to return to safe levels. I caught my hand on the way up to loosen my tie and forced it back into my lap.
She clasped her hands behind her back and paced the floor thoughtfully, her heels clacking against the authentic 20th century tilework.
“Personal reasons? So you are in good health?”
“As far as I know.”
“And you weren’t facing any professional problems? Disputes with coworkers, pending disciplinary action, anything of the sort?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Mr. Miller, how modest!” I caught only the first glimpse of a beaming smile as she spun to face the gallery. “From all accounts you were a model employee. In fact, you were in line for a promotion at the time you stepped down. Is that not true?”
I opened my mouth to argue but it was only out of instinct. “I’d heard something like that, yeah.”
“Those all sound like good arguments for you staying on with the Sol Detective Agency. And yet you chose to leave, in favor of taking on your current position with…” She made a great show of pulling out her comex and scrolling through notes on its touchscreen. Odd how she hadn’t consulted it once until this attempt at a dramatic moment.
She looked up from her device and peered at me over the rimless lenses of her glasses. “I’m sorry, who is it you work for now?”
“Myself.” I hoped my declaration didn’t sound as weak as it did in my head.
“Ahh, self-employed. Of course. And what is it that you do?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“A private investigator.” She repeated my words as if the revelation were some great triumph. “So basically the same work you did when you were with the SDA, but with none of the financial security or the benefits.”
I looked at the prosecutor’s table, where the state attorneys were doing their best to avoid my gaze. Either they knew this was coming and had done nothing to stop it, or they were just as blindsided as I was. Whatever the case, I could expect no help from them. Typical.
“I guess.”
“Then I guess that your ‘personal reasons’ for leaving must have been pretty compelling.” Her ability to articulate the air quotes in her sentence was as impressive as it was annoying. “Certainly enough to share with us today.”
Her tactics were working. The collective energy of the gallery perked up in anticipation. Reporters whispered into their dictation machines, implanted and otherwise.
The only thing holding me back from unleashing absolute hell on her was the knowledge that that was exactly what she wanted. I refused to give it to her. All I had to do was stick to the script, deliver the facts, and get the hell out of here. That was my sole obligation.
“I lost my family in an accident.”
The cumulative sighs from the gallery made it sound like the room was deflating. Despite all her grandstanding, there was a distinct note of sincerity in the lawyer’s pursed frown as she waited for the murmur to die down.
“Two daughters and a wife, if I’m not mistaken,” she continued quietly. “A terrible tragedy. It’s not surprising that you would need to take time away from your job afterward.” She paused, long enough to create a respectable buffer between her sympathy and her professional obligations. “Especially if, as you say, they died because of your job.”
Another wave of reactions, these ones less subdued, rippled throughout the crowd.
“Objection!” One of the navy-suited prosecutors the state had scooped up from central casting sprang to his feet. He must have drawn the short straw. “Relevance, your honor?”
The robed hologram rubbed his ample chin. Whatever sense of humanity the programmers had hoped to impart with such gestures was undone by the uncanny sensation of watching it happen through the judge’s translucent head.
“Miss Neal, I’ve allowed you great latitude thus far. Please get to your point.”
“I will, your honor.” She refocused her attention on me. “Is it true, Mr. Miller, that you have claimed that the circumstances surrounding your family’s deaths were a direct result of your investigative work with the SDA?”
I had, but that’s because they were. If it weren’t for my long hours and constant travel, I never would have convinced Hazel to bring the kids and move out to Titan with me. If it weren’t for my work with the SDA, I wouldn’t have been breathing down the Reaper’s neck. It turned out that when an intergalactic terrorist wants to send a message for someone to back off, a great way to do that is to blow up the transport with their wife and kids in it.
Unfortunately, I had no way of proving it.
“I’ve expressed my own theories before.” The tension in my jaw made each word an exercise.
“Theories.” The lawyer’s voice positively sparkled. No matter how accurate they might be, I regretted my choice of words immediately. “Tell me, Mr. Miller, do you have any proof supporting these theories?”
“Nothing I’m prepared to share today.”
“Is that because you are under oath?”
“Objection,” the other prosecutor flatly interjected. Thank fuck. I was getting filleted.
“Withdrawn,” Neal added cheerfully. She’d gotten her point across. “So walk me through this. After the unfortunate incident with your family, you chose to step down from the Sol Detective Agency in order to open your own private practice. Would you say that this decision was made in part so you could pursue this alleged culprit on your own terms?”
“It was a consideration.”
“Vigilante justice,” Neal intoned emphatically. “Generally not tolerated by the SDA.”
“Ms. Neal.” I thought I caught a hint of synthetic impatience tingeing the judge’s admonishment.
“Establishing a pattern of behavior, your honor.”
“Be quick about it.”
“Now, unlike the SDA, with all its considerable resources, you were forced to start from scratch when it came time to assemble a client list. True or false?”
“True.” I remembered the early days crammed into that tin can of an office, scouring the headlines while refreshing my inbox, waiting for something to come through. Anything to get my mind off of Hazel and the girls.
“So it should come as no surprise that you’d be willing to take on all paying customers. For example, known members of criminal organizations.”
“Objection,” both prosecutors claimed in perfect stereo. They exchanged glances, wordlessly deciding who would take the lead. “Is there a question there?” asked the one on the left, who’d apparently earned the honor.
“My question,” Neal rushed to fit in before the judge could respond, “is why you would be willing to offer your services to none other than Gabriella Denaro.”
The resultant hubbub was enough for the judge to bring his spectral gavel down on the lectern twice. The accompanying thwacks rang out a fraction of a second out of sync, but the crowd was too riled up to notice. Neal had gotten what she’d wanted. She’d managed to turn a routine proceeding into an absolute shitshow by simply stating the facts. The prosecution had brought me on as an expert witness but in the end I was little more than a liability. It was about par for the course these days.
“Recess,” someone barked from the middle of the clamor. I recognized the voice, its tinny quality exaggerated by the volume it took to overcome the crowd. A hush blanketed the room as heads turned toward the massive German Shepherd standing on one of the scuffed benches, his forepaws balanced confidently on the one in front of it.
My partner’s tail wagged as we made eye contact. Good ol’ CAT. At least I could still count on him to bail me out of these situations.
“Recess granted,” the judge said. I don’t know whether he noticed who’d made the request or if he just didn’t care. “We’ll reconvene in twenty.”
With another glitchy bang of the gavel the judge blipped out of existence, leaving me alone in front of a courtroom in chaos. On a lark, I looked to see what the almond-eyed reporter made of it all. She was nowhere to be found.