Part 2 (1/2)

”She was moved,” Scott-Olson said. ”Corpses mummify here. Someone placed the skeleton there.”

”And you have soil samples from the site?” Costard asked. She moved her fingers away from the skeleton. Poor thing. The woman hadn't been much taller than Costard in life. And she had children, which meant that once upon a time, she'd had a family, someone who cared about her.

Someone who missed her when she disappeared.

”I have soil samples, video of the site, stills, and air composition as well as odor tracking as we slowly brought her out. The crime scene unit has the blade of what we would call a backhoe-the Disty have their own name for the d.a.m.n thing, and it is slightly different-as well as some of their equipment. We could have had all of it. I doubt they'll ever touch it again.”

Costard looked at her. Scott-Olson was staring at the skeleton, too. ”You're going to have to explain the Disty death thing to me.”

”Believe me,” Scott-Olson said. ”I will.”

”First things first,” Costard said. ”We're going to have to test the soil and see if it colored her bones. We'll have to figure out her age and her identification. And we'll have to figure cause of death, unless I'm missing something obvious.”

”She has a lot of scratches and cuts in the bones,” Scott-Olson said. ”But I'm not sure if they're postmortem. I'm not sure how she became a skeleton, whether the flesh was cut off her or not. I a.s.sume so, since the killer left enough connective tissue so that the bones are still attached to each other. I could have figured some of this out, but since you were coming, I thought I'd leave it to the expert.”

Costard appreciated that. Bone work was her specialty. Medical examiners didn't specialize in anything except the various forms of human death.

”How much time do I have to complete the work?” Costard asked.

”The faster you get it done, the better,” Scott-Olson said. ”The Disty won't go near the death site. More than a thousand are temporarily homeless, and they're getting angrier as each day goes by.”

”A thousand homeless?”

”They cram into these buildings like you wouldn't believe. I'm probably underestimating. And that really doesn't matter. What matters is that the Disty are going to a.s.sign blame for her death if we don't.”

”Figuring out who killed her isn't my job,” Costard said. ”I can tell you how she died and how long she's been dead- roughly anyway-and help you identify her, but that's all I can do.”

”I know,” Scott-Olson said. ”But we need those things before we find her killer.”

Costard had never heard an M.E. sound so unrealistic before. ”You might never find her killer. You do know that, right?”

”We have to find her killer,” Scott-Olson said. ”Or the Disty will do it for us.”

”I thought you said they don't like death. They investigate it?”

”Not like we do. And their ideas of justice aren't the same as ours either.”

Costard felt cold. ”Are you saying they'll just pick someone at random?”

”No, although that might be better.”

”What will they do, then?” Costard asked.

”They'll blame us.”

”Humans?” Costard asked.

Scott-Olson shook her head. ”You, me, anyone involved in the investigation.”

”Legally, they can't do that,” Costard said.

”Legally, they can do what they want,” Scott-Olson said. ”Mars is Disty territory. I thought you knew that.”

”But you have your own law enforcement,” Costard said, not sure she understood this correctly.

”It's a courtesy,” Scott-Olson said.

”They'll kill you?” Costard asked.

”It's a risk,” Scott-Olson said. ”We've touched the body. We've been contaminated by it. We're useless to them.”

Costard felt a surge of anger. Someone should have told her. ”I think I'll just take the next shuttle to Earth. I am not volunteering for this.”

”It's too late,” Scott-Olson said. ”You already have.”

3.

Miles Flint stood in the back of the press conference room in Armstrong's Police Headquarters. He made sure he was close to the door, so that he could duck out quickly if he had to. A year after he quit the force, he had no longer felt a part of it. Now he felt like a complete outsider.

He had his arms crossed and his back pressed against the wall. Several other people stood next to him, many of them focused on their multimedia equipment. A few spoke softly, narrating the events for viewers who couldn't attend.

Ahead of him, a sea of blue Armstrong Police uniforms filled the room. They were present because this wasn't just a press conference, it was also a ceremony-a ceremony that had surprised Flint as much as it surprised its intended victim, Noelle DeRicci.

DeRicci sat at the edge of the stage, her legs crossed, her hands resting comfortably in her lap. She wore a skirt-and-blazer combination with chiffon accents, making her seem very stylish. Her dark hair, which once had touches of gray, now had streaks of black in its professional cut. She even wore some makeup, something the old DeRicci-the woman who had once been Flint's partner back when he was a detective -would have scorned.

Still, she was the same woman, brash, brilliant, and insecure. When she had mounted the stage, she had scanned for him, then smiled when she saw him.

He had smiled too. He liked her and he had come to support her in this, one of the more important press conferences of her career.

It hadn't been fair of him to think of her as a victim. DeRicci was no one's victim except her own. She was about to become the recipient of Armstrong's highest honor, the Silver Moon, given to public servants who acted with bravery above and beyond the call of duty.

DeRicci had deserved this for her work a few years ago, stopping a highly infectious virus that would have contaminated the dome and killed most of its inhabitants. She hadn't received the award then, partly because she had no political clout at the time, and partly because of Flint's involvement in that case-something the city had wanted to keep hidden.

But Flint had no involvement in this latest triumph of De-Ricci's. She had investigated, along with the help of an impressive team, last year's bombing of Armstrong's dome. In the course of her work, she had found structural cracks in the dome that would have caused it to disintegrate suddenly and without warning.

Once again, DeRicci had saved the Moon's largest city. And this time, she was getting recognized for it.

Arek Soseki, Armstrong's mayor, had been droning for nearly ten minutes now about the bombing, the costly aftermath, and DeRicci's actions. The group on the stage, most of whom knew all of this, tried to pay attention.

That group included a whole host of political dignitaries, including the Moon's governor-general. The only police officers included, besides DeRicci, were her immediate boss, Andrea Gumiela, and the chief of police.

”He can talk, can't he?” Ki Bowles leaned against the wall next to Flint. Bowles worked for InterDome Media. She had made her reputation as an investigative reporter, but in the past few months, she had spent most of her time behind a desk, framing other reporters' stories for the nets' constant live broadcasts. Flint had no idea if that was a demotion or not.

”Isn't talking his job?” Flint asked.