70
In full dress uniform, Daragon headed toward his position in the termination facility, avoiding everyone.
He had been “rewarded” with diminished duties, and some BTL bureaucrats were muttering with displeasure about his personal connection to the Eduard Swan case, his obsession that had caused his other workload to suffer. They didn’t want him making any public statement, but as head of the apprehension team that had captured Eduard, he was expected to be an important observer at the execution. It was his duty. It was his curse.
Eduard’s fate was already out of his hands, placed under the jurisdiction of a different Bureau. Holding himself rigid and grim, Daragon wanted nothing more than to leave. He was just a showpiece here, and he hated every minute of it. He would rather go back to the underwater BTL Headquarters, sit in the Chief’s former office and remember Mordecai Ob. He would watch schools of fish swim through the kelp forest as distant sunlight sliced through the water.
And he would try to forget about Eduard.
This case had thrown Inspector Daragon Swan into a whirlpool of unwanted attention. Before long, some investigative journalist was sure to learn that Daragon himself had gotten Eduard the job working for Mordecai Ob. Therefore, the BTL officials had to make sure everything went by the book, with no deviations, no mistakes.
But Daragon couldn’t leave it at that. Quietly, using every favor, every manipulation skill he knew, he had already quashed the accomplice charges leveled against Garth and Teresa, but he could do no more. Garth’s mansion was shut down and silent, and since he could not find the artist, he had no chance to return the blond home-body to him. After the execution, Daragon was sure he could place some injunction against the vile Madame Ruxton—that would be as satisfying to him as when he’d quietly ruined Rhys and the Sharetakers. It wouldn’t be difficult to confiscate Garth’s home-body and give it back to him.
The opportunities for scandal were myriad, but he didn’t care.
Now, he marched down the austere halls of the well-guarded facility. The BIE personnel showed Daragon deference, congratulated him formally. He accepted their kindness politely, then turned down another corridor as rapidly as possible. He concentrated on attending to every little thing. An Inspector was good at the details. He would get through this one minute at a time, until it was finally over.
Guards were escorting old Madame Ruxton toward the holding room, and Daragon found a reason to turn in the opposite direction. A long time ago he had protected Eduard from the rich crone’s greed, and he didn’t want to face her vindictiveness now—to see her gloat. With clicking bootheels, he hurried to a different control center, refusing even to look at her.
He tried to hold on to thoughts of how Chief Ob had given him such a remarkable opportunity with the BTL. Because of his inability to hopscotch, he’d been different from everybody else. Even among his friends in the monastery, he had always been an outsider. But the Bureau had accepted him. Ob’s faith in Daragon’s special abilities had turned him into someone powerful and impressive.
And then Eduard had killed the man who had been the closest thing to a father to him. Daragon focused on that.
Once captured, Eduard hadn’t even tried to defend himself—he seemed already defeated by the fact that his former friend had turned against him. “You’re all about justice, Daragon. But you can’t have justice without truth.”
The BTL had done its thorough investigation, and they had found no concrete evidence to confirm Eduard’s story. Even Daragon had not been able to convince himself of what Teresa and Garth believed. What other choice did an Inspector have? It was his duty.
As he tried to convince himself, the face of happy-go-lucky young Eduard, the daredevil and scamp who ran across slick rooftops to explore the city, kept haunting him. A cocky boy who stole flowers for Teresa, who threw himself into danger to save his friends. The man Daragon could never be.
No wonder he’d never experienced the same depth of friendship with Teresa, or Garth, or even Eduard. What had he done differently?
Garth’s career had been launched by Mordecai Ob, who had given him the money and freedom to follow his dream. And yet, the moment Eduard came in with his wild story about the Bureau Chief’s abuse, Garth had never doubted him, never hesitated before offering to help a known fugitive and probable murderer. Because they were friends.
Years ago, Eduard had thrown himself against an armed terrorist to save Teresa in the flower market. He had rescued her from the Sharetakers when Rhys had beaten her, and he had swapped into her wounded body so she could heal more peacefully. In return, Teresa had begged him to trade bodies with her when he’d gone on the run, knowing that Eduard’s body was strung out and addicted to Rush-X. She hadn’t doubted him, either, not for a second.
Daragon still considered them his closest friends, yet he was sure they would not have made similar selfless sacrifices for him. His throat went dry and his heart grew heavy as he realized the corollary. Would I have done it for them?
He had never been willing to take chances, to open himself. Yes, he had watched over them, using his BTL resources, and he had saved them from problems and embarrassing situations. But he had never done any selfless act that required him to take an actual risk on their behalf. He could almost hear Teresa scolding him: “You don’t get closer by doing things for us, Daragon. You get closer just by being a friend.”
It sounded so simple, but he wasn’t sure he could accomplish that.
Nauseated by himself, and by what he was about to witness, Daragon could think of nothing he could do—for anyone. He would just have to endure, and try to heal afterward.
He went to his position with the witnesses for the execution: Olaf Pitervald the window-maintenance engineer, the woman suffering from a muscular disease who now lived in Teresa’s waifish body, the hirsute parolee, the scrawny underground worker, the inspec-tech who would never be able to recover his own body.
Behind a wide observation window laced with fiberoptic recording blips, the metal-walled chamber was ready, the COM-upload hardware prepared to drain Eduard. Daragon looked at the clock, counting down the minutes. After so long, so much work, so much anguish . . . it would all be over soon.
Prowling up and down the corridors, Daragon went about his rounds again, checking and double-checking. Nothing must go wrong.
He drew a deep, heavy breath. He didn’t know whether to be glad it was almost finished, or sad for the loss of his friends. All of them.