Penumbra

20

Rana Rao thought that there were three types of pain. The first was the dull pain of dying, when the injury was so severe that the body shut down and anaesthetised the senses. The second was the sharp pain of recovery, when you often wished that you had died. The third type of pain was the pain of betrayal, and perhaps that was the most agonising of all. She had experienced all three types of pain, from the second Klien fired at her all the way through to being discharged from hospital.

She’d lost consciousness soon after she was shot, then came awake—disoriented and confused—some unknown time later in a private hospital room, abstracted from sensation by sedatives and analgesics. At that first stirring of consciousness, at some lonely time in the dark early hours, she was ridiculously concerned about only one thing. She had never been vain about her appearance, but now she tried to reach up and touch her face. Her arms seemed to be tied down—no, not tied down, but restricted by tubes and catheters, their plastic loops and lengths catching a distant light. She pulled against them and the muscles of her shoulders protested, but she managed to bring her finger-tips up to her cheek and lean forward minimally. She almost wept with relief as her fingers encountered soft flesh. She tried the other side then, and discovered that that cheek was also unscarred.

Then she remembered the shoot-out. Klien had shot the security officers and left her for dead. He’d had no time to scar her.

“You shouldn’t do that.” She was aware of the face swimming into her view, gentle hands on hers, forcing her arms down by her sides. “Close your eyes and rest,” the nurse said. “There, try to sleep.”

When she awoke next it was to a searing pain in her chest, as if a burning arrow had lodged itself in her sternum. She screamed and opened her eyes and saw many green-smocked medics gathered around her bed, staring at her without expression above surgical masks. In that intense second of agony she wished that Klien had succeeded and killed her. Then the pain diminished, and she closed her eyes and drifted off into oblivion.

She seemed to wake up frequently after that, for short periods between long stretches of sedation, and always the pain was a little less intense. Always she tried to remain awake a little longer, without success.

She remembered fragments from these awakenings. Vishwanath sitting beside her, concern etched on his aquiline face, a hand on hers. He was saying something, asking her if she could recall anything, but when she tried to speak she found that the words would not come. The next time she opened her eyes she saw Naz standing next to the bed, a bunch of flowers in his hand. He reached out and took her fingers. “Truce?” he asked, and this time she managed a few words: “Ah-cha, truce.”

The next time she came to her senses, it seemed to her a proper awakening. It was morning, and she was in a different room, with sunlight spilling in through a window, illuminating her bed and so many beautiful, fragrant flowers. She was no longer attached to drips and tubes. She wondered if she were out of intensive care now, if she would live. She looked through the door of her room. An armed guard was stationed there. She closed her eyes, against her will, and slept.

A voice came to her as if from a great distance. “Rana?”

She tried to open her eyes, to focus. She recognised the voice. She smiled. It was her father’s voice, and she was five again, and he was playing with her on the lawn of the mansion…

She opened her eyes.

“Rana?” Vishwanath said. He sat on a chair next to the bed, leaning forward and staring at her.

She turned her head slightly, managed a smile.

“I don’t want you to speak if it’s too difficult, Rana.”

She tried to lick her dry lips. She was aware that she was thirsty. “I’m fine,” she murmured. “Can… can I have water?”

He jumped up to fetch a glass of water, held it to her lips. The sensation of the cold, clear liquid wetting her lips and flowing over her tongue was a delight.

She dropped her head back to the pillow. The effort of drinking had exhausted her.

“You’re lucky to be alive, Rana.” He squeezed her hand.

“How… how long have I been—”

“Almost a month, Rana. You were in a coma for two weeks, and then in intensive care on a life support machine for a week. You don’t know how lucky you were. The laser missed your heart and spine by millimetres.”

“A month…” She marvelled to herself.

“The killer got away, Rana. When the medics found you, they thought you were dead.”

She tried to return the pressure on his fingers. “Did you… did you get him?”

Vishwanath shook his head. “He killed three security officers and got away. But we have the description of a tall, grey-haired man leaving the apartment buildings.”

Rana tried to sit up, but Vishwanath restrained her.

“No… disguise. He was in disguise. He has black hair.”

Vishwanath frowned. “Black hair?”

She tried to raise her head from the pillow, but fell back, exhausted.

“It was Klien,” she managed eventually. “Ezekiel Klien.”

Vishwanath stared at her. “Klien, the security chief at the port?” His tone conveyed disbelief.

“Klien… the crucifix killings. He did them all. I… I interviewed him. He knew I was getting close, so… so he came to kill me. He was in disguise.”

She remembered their confrontation, and his demanding from her the softscreen. But what did that mean? Why did he want the screen? Where did that fit into the scheme of things?

She was exhausted, too wrung out to say another word or even to remain awake. Her last sight was of Vishwanath staring down at her incredulously.

When she came to her senses again, Vishwanath was sitting on one side of the bed, Commissioner Singh on the other. She assumed that minutes had elapsed, that Vishwanath must have called Singh. Then she realised that it was dark beyond the window. Hours had passed.

She blinked from Singh to Vishwanath. “Two visitors now,” she managed. “Must be getting better.”

Vishwanath pulled his chair forward. “Rana, I want you to tell Commissioner Singh what you told me. About Ezekiel Klien.”

She turned her head to regard the overweight Sikh. She was aware of the weight of his regard, his reluctance to be convinced.

“Klien,” she said, her every word an effort, “Klien is the crucifix killer. I… I interviewed him. He knew I was on to him. Someone saw him kill Raja Khan, then walk to his house on Allahabad Marg. Only he was in the disguise of the silver-haired man. Same man who… who came to kill me. It was Klien.” She paused, licked her lips. “He has a… a capillary net. One of the prototypes.”

The words dried up. It was all she could do to look from Vishwanath to Singh, try to assess their reaction.

Vishwanath touched her hand. “We’re continuing our investigations, Rana. Rest, now. I’ll see you later.”

The two men left the room. She watched them in the corridor, talking animatedly in low tones.

She closed her eyes and slept.

Soon her cycle of sleeping and waking regulated itself. She slept during the hours of darkness and woke in the morning. The last of the tubes, those inserted directly into her stomach, feeding her for the past month, were removed and she was allowed to eat small meals. Her first breakfast of fried egg, vegetable cutlet and sweet chai was the finest she had ever tasted.

She was allowed out of bed, but only as far as the chair facing the window. The short walk of half a dozen steps exhausted her, but at least there was no pain.

She was examined regularly by a doctor, and once her surgeon introduced himself. “The laser went straight through your chest,” he said with matter-of-fact relish. “A millimetre either way and you’d be dead. As it was, it just broke a few bones and nicked your right lung.” He reached out and rubbed the back of her hand. “Touch you for good luck, Rana. We’ll have you out of here in a week.”

She looked forward to Vishwanath’s next visit. She did not want his praise so much as his acknowledgement that her investigations had borne fruit, that her work had led to Klien’s arrest. Then, no doubt, would come his censure for her pursuing interviews without notifying him of her intentions.

The next time Vishwanath visited, Commissioner Singh was with him again. She was sitting up in bed, leafing through a holodrama magazine, when the two men entered the room. Vishwanath closed the door behind him. In silence they took their seats on either side of the bed.

She smiled from Vishwanath to Singh, but they did not smile back.

“Lieutenant Rao,” Singh said, “the allegation you made against Ezekiel Klien is a very serious matter.” He watched her with an unflinching gaze.

“I know that,” she said. Something turned sickeningly in her stomach. “Of course it’s a serious matter. So is trying to shoot someone dead.”

Singh glanced at Vishwanath and sighed. “The fact is that we’ve investigated your claims, Lieutenant, and we cannot find a shred of evidence to justify taking any action against Klien in regard of the so-called crucifix killings or your attempted murder.”

She looked from Singh to Vishwanath, wanting to laugh out loud and at the same time wanting to cry with rage at the injustice. Vishwanath was regarding her with the gaze of a disappointed father.

She shook her head. “I know who shot me,” she whispered. “It was Ezekiel Klien.”

“Lieutenant Rao,” Singh began with manufactured patience. “We have questioned Klien as to what he was doing at the time of the killings over the past ten years. He has an alibi to account for his whereabouts on every single occasion.”

“What about the killing of Raja Khan?”

Singh glanced at Vishwanath, who said, “Rana, we have three witnesses who will testify under oath that they saw him at the spaceport that night.”

“And the morning he tried to kill me? I suppose he’s paid liars to testify for him then?”

Singh said, “Lieutenant, I’ve had some of my best men working on your claims. I’m sorry, but no evidence whatsoever was discovered to corroborate what you said.”

She fought to keep her voice calm. “Are you calling me a liar, sir? I know who tried to kill me!”

Vishwanath said patiently, “Rana, Klien was on duty in his office on the morning you were shot. We have witnesses who saw him.”

“But that’s impossible. Please believe me, I know who I was talking to. I know it was him. He introduced himself!”

Singh shook his head. “I can only assume that you were mistaken, Lieutenant. The alternative, that you are deliberately lying, is too offensive to contemplate. Ezekiel Klien happens to be an acquaintance of mine of long standing. Your bizarre claims have caused me severe embarrassment.”

He nodded at Vishwanath, who touched Rana’s hand, almost apologetically, before rising and opening the door for his superior.

Rana lay back and stared at the ceiling, tears of rage and betrayal tracking down her cheeks. She had considered telling him that Klien had demanded to know the whereabouts of her softscreen, but they were determined to disbelieve her anyway. What difference would it make to their assessment of the case if she told them?

By keeping the knowledge to herself, she had her first lead in her case against Klien. He wanted her softscreen, and she had it; therefore she was in a position of power.

Over the period of the next two weeks she made a steady recovery, and just six weeks after the shooting she walked from the hospital. For reasons of security she was relocated to a police apartment in the city centre, a short walk from police headquarters, and a twenty-four-hour armed guard was posted on her door.

Rana was told by Vishwanath to take a holiday and not to return to work for a month. She decided to stay in the city. She visited Vandita and the other kids, but said nothing about the shooting. “But you haven’t visited us for so long!” they complained. She smiled and made excuses, told them stories of car chases and shoot-outs. She wanted to hold them all, as night drew in, as if to protect them from the city and all the evil out there. The thought of Klien and his crimes filled her with a black depression. She considered taking a weapon herself and shooting him dead. The thought, if nothing else, was a catharsis.

After just one week of her month’s leave, she contacted Vishwanath and begged to be allowed back to work. She told him she was fit and healthy and could work at her com-screen as well as the next officer. Vishwanath relented, allowed her to start work, but only at her com-screen; on no account was she to go out on a case. She wondered if this stricture was in view of her health, or on the orders of Commissioner Singh.

Varma gave her a great hug on her first day back, and a card from Naz stood on her desk among the others; it asked if she was free for a meal that evening. Smiling, she caught his eye across the room, tore the card in two and dropped it into the litter bin. It was back to business as usual on the eighth floor.

Rana was taken off the crucifix killings and given the files of other cases to analyse. Occasionally her curiosity got the better of her and she accessed the files on the crucifix case. She read through other officers’ reports concerning Klien and his alibis, and sure enough on the date of every killing his whereabouts were accounted for by trustworthy witnesses. But the very fact that he had an alibi for every murder struck Rana as suspicious. He had friends who were willing to lie for him, or people whom he had bribed. She thought of Commissioner Singh, who actually knew Klien, and she knew that the task of proving Klien guilty would be almost impossible.

One morning, as she was going through the files of the case yet again, it came to her that Commissioner Singh might actually be aware that Klien was the crucifix killer, that Singh was in fact protecting his friend. It made sense. Klien was, after all, ridding the city of criminal elements, saving Singh the work of investigating these criminals himself. She wondered if there was any shred of truth in her suspicion, or if she was merely taking out her resentment on Singh because he had refused to believe her. But, she asked herself, how else had Klien managed to produce so many alibis, convince so many investigating officers of his innocence?

The thought plunged Rana into depression.

Then, a few days later, something happened which put all thought of Singh’s possible corruption from her mind.

Before she began work one morning, she stopped by the second floor and found the security sergeant in his office. He was apologetic. “I still have your softscreen in my desk, Lieutenant. Unfortunately I’ve had no time to examine it.”

“Oh… I was hoping you could tell me something about the homing device, Sergeant. I want to know if the screen, or the device, is valuable or special in some way. Is there any reason that anyone might…” She was about to say “kill” for it, but checked herself. “That anyone might wish to steal it?”

“Ah-cha. I’ll have a look at the first opportunity, Lieutenant. I’ll be in touch.”

That day on the eighth floor, Rana worked halfheartedly on the cases given to her by Vishwanath, and hated every minute of it. She was depressed by the thought of Klien’s freedom, mocking her. She wondered how many other criminals were walking the streets thanks to the corruption of those in power.

She entertained the fantasy of running away, of dropping the persona of Rana Rao, police officer, forgetting Klien and the terrible injustice of his liberty and starting a new life somewhere. But where, she asked herself? She knew only about life in Calcutta. She had run away once, but it had seemed so easy then—there had been the whole city to run to. Her gaze strayed unbidden to the travel article on her com-screen, advertising life on the colony worlds.

Someone approached her desk, startling her—the sergeant from security.

“Lieutenant Rao,” he said. “There’s been a development regarding the softscreen.”

She looked at him. “There has?”

“A gentleman has come to my office in search of the screen,” he said. “He is a Westerner, I think perhaps American.”

Rana felt her mouth go dry. Klien, she thought. But how had he traced the screen to security?

“Describe him.”

The sergeant blinked. “He is tall. Perhaps thirty-five. Long-haired, down to here”—he touched his shoulder—“and he is wearing the flight-suit of a space pilot.”

It didn’t sound like Klien, unless he had disguised himself again.

Apprehensive, Rana told the sergeant that she would be down in five minutes. She closed the file she was working on, then made sure her holster was open and took the elevator down to the second floor.

Cautiously, she paused at the door and looked in. She released a relieved sigh. The man was sitting nervously in his chair, hunched forward. His flight-suit was scuffed, his long dark hair lank and unwashed.

Rana gestured to the sergeant, who joined her at the door. “If you’d allow me a few minutes alone with him…”

The sergeant nodded. “Ah-cha. I’ll be next door if you need anything.”

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. The American swivelled quickly in his seat, regarded her with dark eyes that seemed at once suspicious and afraid.

She rounded the desk and sat down. “I am Lieutenant Rao,” she said.

“Bennett,” he said. “Josh Bennett.”

His face was unshaven and sallow, and there was a tiredness and grubbiness about the man that made her wonder what he had been through to get here. Also, there was a gentleness about his manner. He was a big man whose movements were slow and considered, as if conscious of forever trying to prevent himself from clumsiness.

Rana remained stern-faced. For all she knew, he wanted the softscreen for the same reasons that Klien did. She wondered, though it was hard to believe, if he would be as desperate as Klien to obtain the screen.

“Can I ask you why you are here, Mr Bennett?”

“I… I’m an employee of the Mackendrick Foundation, Lieutenant. A pilot—”

“The Mackendrick Foundation?”

She stared at him. So Bennett worked for her father, and was here in search of the softscreen… But how did he know that the screen was here, in this office? She felt dizzy with confusion.

Bennett was nodding. “I work directly for Charles Mackendrick himself. Years ago an item of property belonging to Mackendrick was stolen from him. A softscreen. It’s vital that the screen is returned.”

“You… you’re in contact with Mackendrick?” She felt as she had when awakening in the hospital, removed from the reality around her, watching proceedings as if at a distance. “How do you know the softscreen is here?”

Bennett ran a big hand through his receding hair, beginning a combing motion on top of his head, finishing at the nape of his neck. His hand stayed there as he considered her questions.

“I’m in contact with him. Well, technically I suppose I’m not—he’s light years away on a Rim planet. But I was in contact with him. I… I was given a device, a receiver, that would locate the softscreen.”

Rana shook her head, totally confused. “But why didn’t he use the receiver to locate the screen when it was originally stolen?”

“Because he didn’t have the receiver then. He’s only just found out about it. He sent me to Earth to find the screen and take it back to him. It’s vital that he gets it. Look, if you doubt who I am, contact the Mackendrick Foundation, here in Calcutta. They’ll confirm that I’m employed by Mackendrick, at least.”

“I believe you, Mr Bennett. Tell me, how is Mackendrick?”

He blinked. “You know him?”

“I… I met him when he was resident in Calcutta,” Rana dissembled.

Bennett gestured. “To be honest he’s very ill. He has only months to live. I need to get the softscreen back to him.”

Rana closed her eyes. She recalled her father’s voice, his smile as he played with her on the lawn of the mansion when she was five years old. She tried to assess her reaction to the fact that her father was dying. Shock, she supposed, even though she had not seen him in years, even though she could not claim to feel any degree of love for him, in the accepted sense of the word.

But he was her father, and he was dying.

She opened her eyes suddenly and stared at the pilot. “Why does he want the screen?”

How many times had she watched the softscreen unfold the dramatic story of three explorers on some far-flung alien world, as they trekked through blizzards into a high mountain range? She had found it entertaining as a child on the streets, a window on to an unimaginably cold and hostile other world.

Bennett gave her a shy smile. “Lieutenant, it’s a long and improbable story. To be honest, I don’t think you’d believe a word of it.”

“Tell me.”

“The recording was made by a man called Quineau, on a planet settled by the survivors of a crashed starship way outside the Expansion. The softscreen was… is...the only means by which anyone could find the way back to where he claimed he’d discovered a race of aliens known as the Ancients. After returning from the expedition, Quineau left the planet to tell the Expansion of the colony’s existence. He was found by a Mackendrick salvage ship, which is how the softscreen came into Mackendrick’s possession. Quineau was followed from Penumbra by someone from the governing council who didn’t want the planet’s existence known to outsiders, an assassin called Klien, who killed Quineau in order to silence him—”

Bennett stopped as he noticed Rana’s expression. She stared into space, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place.

“Klien…” she whispered to herself.

“You know him?”

She smiled at Bennett. “We have met. He tried to get the softscreen from me.”

“You mean, you had the screen?” He looked confused. “But it was stolen years ago. How did it come into your possession?”

Rana sat back in her seat and stared at the ceiling. Then she looked at Bennett and smiled. “It’s my turn to tell you a story that you might find hard to believe,” she said. “You see, thirteen years ago I stole the softscreen, and I’ve had it with me ever since.”

Bennett massaged his tired face with both hands, finally parting them like shutters and staring out at her. “This is crazy. I don’t understand. His safe was raided, his daughter kidnapped—” He stopped, his eyes widening in sudden realisation. “You…” he said at last.

“I took the screen from the safe, along with some money. I ran away and lived on the streets.”

Bennett stared at her in disbelief. “To this day,” he said, “your father grieves over losing you.”

Rana matched his stare. “Perhaps, had he been more of a father to me back then, I might never have run away.”

Bennett was shaking his head. “It’s hard to believe…” He stared at her, then said, “You’re really Sita Mackendrick?”

“Not any more, Mr Bennett. I’m Rana Rao, now, and I have been since I was ten years old.”

“Okay. I don’t know what you went through then. Who am I to opinionate?” He paused there, considering. “But your father needs the screen, Lieutenant. He’s dying, and he seems to think that maybe the Ancients—if they exist—might be able to heal him.”

“Are you returning to Penumbra?”

“Just as soon as I get the softscreen,” Bennett said.

It began as an absurd notion, fleeting and soon dismissed. Then it returned, not so easily dismissed this time, because Klien had to be defeated, the softscreen had to be taken to where it was safe—and it was time for Rana to run away again.

She thought of her father. This would be her very last chance to see him, to tell him that she was sorry.

Rana pulled open the drawer of the desk, reached in and produced the folded screen. She began to hand it across the desk to Bennett, then paused.

“I will give you the softscreen,” she told him, “on one condition.”

His hand halted in the act of reaching. “Name it.”

She looked into his eyes as she said, “Take me with you, Bennett. I want to go to Penumbra.”

He smiled, accepted the softscreen, and said, “You’ve got yourself a deal, Lieutenant.”