Credence Foundation

Chapter Five



Trumaine drove along the six-lane road that connected East to West City. As straight as an arrow, it ran deep down into the “Canyon,” a sunken, narrow gully formed by the endless walls of high-rise buildings aligned at either side of it.

It had that name because the buildings were simply too tall to let the sunlight reach the ground, except for the hour when the sun was about at its zenith; only then a thin strip of light would dare peer into the bottom of the gorge. In that moment, the rows of perfectly trimmed trees that marked the boundary between the road and the sidewalk shone like emerald and the polished tops of the vehicles jammed in the traffic looked like a river streaming through a forest set into walls of limestone.

It was just past lunchtime and the sunlight hadn’t begun to recede yet. The restaurants and the bars between the rows of trees still had customers. One could glimpse them from the street, sitting at the too-small, round coffee tables, hurriedly eating their lunch. They could possibly count on another twenty minutes of bright light before the shadows crawled over, chasing the sun up the overhanging walls of the Canyon and away.

Noon wasn’t the only moment when the trees could see the sunlight, remembered Trumaine. Twice a year, in March and in September—during the two equinoxes—the course of the sun would match the position of the Canyon and the sunlight would flood everything for the whole day. It was quite a sight.

He had first met Starshanna on the sunset of the spring equinox, when she used to work in the bars for a buck. She had come out of the Sangreal exactly when the dying sun had turned the Canyon into a golden dipper. It was warm outside and she wore just shorts and a t-shirt. For a brief moment, when she had walked into the amber glow, she had looked like a goddess of times past.

Trumaine sighed from behind the wheel of his car. For the second time that day, the thought that he should move to the City came to him. He had seen the residential area assigned to bachelors; it was nice and blithe.

Trumaine drove to an imposing building rising on the north side of the Canyon. It was all white, except for its base, which was paneled with glass the same color as police officers’ ordinance badges: blue.

The police station had a wide front that gave on a long and flat square surrounded by ornamental trees and benches. Trumaine signaled, then pulled down the ramp that opened on the short side of the square, where a sign read: POLICE DEPARTMENT ONLY.

A spiral ramp went down the many levels of the police department parking. Driving at a crawl, Trumaine turned into the first level.

All kinds of police vehicles were to be found at level one. Not just the urban scooters and the squad cars that prowled the streets every day and night, but also the heavier patrol wagons and the vehicles for special use, like tow trucks and elevator trucks. Even a cumbersome, obsolete armor-plated rammer could be glimpsed, sitting in a forgotten corner, gathering dust.

Power cables snaked out from under the hood of most vehicles, reaching into the endless rows of plugs that lined the walls of every level in the parking, endlessly recharging their batteries.

Trumaine parked in the section reserved for the unmarked vehicles. He climbed out from the car, then stepped to the front hood, from where he retrieved a thick cable. He uncoiled it and he too plugged into the power network. He waited until the indicator LED in the plug turned green, then he walked away, toward the elevators.

As the elevator climbed in silence, Trumaine threw his head back and looked up at the pebbled glass in the ceiling, from which a cold service light diffused.

He lived in decent times, he thought. Crimes like rape, kidnapping and murder were now rare. People were happier. A widespread access to wealth had contributed to that. No doubt a thickly woven net of close circuit cameras as well as real-time satellite imaging had helped. Criminal organizations had left the street for the subtler and ruthless world of finance where, by supporting this or that political faction, they would be granted everlasting sanctuary. That went for big-time crooks, of course.

What happened inside people’s home was another matter; one could never tell what went on behind the holy veil of domesticity. It was in their secluded apartments where polite, efficient men and women would dismiss the masks they wore in the world outside and become their truest selves. Behind the homely walls, spite would be born; out of envy, disrespect, thwarted hopes, forlorn love. Fed by anger, spite would rise, turning into a raging fire that would destroy everything.

Man had walked long, tedious miles since his inception. He had become wise and a deft technician. Yet, wealth, good schooling and decent manners hadn’t wiped the animal within. Hardly submissive, never tame, it was always ready to rear its ugly head and jump out of the darkness where it dwelt to attack and gnaw at the reasonable mind. It was the beast of human nature.

The elevator door opened and Trumaine stepped into the silence of the department office hall. It was as tidy, neat and bright as any office should be. The day sergeant sat behind his desk, typing away in his computer, when he looked up in surprise.

“Tru? I thought you were off,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” replied Trumaine, flatly.

The puzzled sergeant scratched the top of his head as the detective walked past him.

At least a dozen doors opened at either side of the corridor. Trumaine came to a small waiting room at the end of it. It contained a few chairs and a beautiful fern that looked too perfect to be real. Only one door gave on the waiting room and its brass nameplate read: CPT. GRANT FIRRELL.

Trumaine stopped in front of the door and knocked.

“Enter!” said a voice within.

He opened the door and went in.

“A what?!”

Firrell had almost shouted at hearing the word. He had lifted his eyes from the document he was reading and stared at Trumaine with shock.

Firrell’s office was medium-sized. One of the few in the level with a real window and a real view, through which real sunlight came in. Sparsely furnished, all that was personal—career achievements, mentions, encomia and a few strategic pictures portraying Firrell with the people who counted for something in the force—all had been confined to a solitary corner.

The only pleasure the captain had conceded for himself was a small coffee machine standing behind him, along with a water dispenser.

Firrell reached out feverishly for a glass of water. He gulped it, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his suit’s jacket. Only then did he dare look up at Trumaine a second time.

“A what?!” he repeated, making sure he hadn’t heard wrong.

“A telepath, Grant,” said Trumaine patiently.

He was now sitting on a design chair in front of Firrell. A billowing cup of still untasted coffee lay on his side of the table.

The captain rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Of all the queer things I’ve heard in my life this is, by far, the queerest, I swear,” he snarled. “A telepath. And you say it was Benedict who suggested it?”

“At first, he wouldn’t hear any reasons,” explained Trumaine. “According to him, Credence had nothing to do with the murder, it was just not possible. The feed, the way the system works, the way data is handled, everything was foolproof and watertight, and I was just wrong to suspect them.”

He lunged for the coffee and took a sip before it got too cold. It wasn’t bad, compared with what the coffee dispensers served. All the same, he couldn’t get off his tongue the vague aftertaste of burned rubber.

“It took a lot of prodding,” continued Trumaine, “before Benedict admitted that only a special individual with special skills could have done it: a telepath. According to Benedict, a telepath could have hijacked the believers and had them do anything he wanted, including flushing him in and out of the Jarvas’ bunker. He threw in a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts,’ but I think the threat he had in mind was real enough to him. I think he’s scared stiff to have a telepath roaming free in his Credence.”

“Well, I can’t blame him,” said Firrell. “But I still don’t understand—is telepathy even possible?”

Trumaine shrugged.

“Credence uses believers’ minds to take starships to places obsolete technology would never dream of. More than half a million individuals travel across the universe using Credence’s services. Do they give a damn about how that is achieved? Do they crack their heads over how it all works? No. Do we? We don’t, either. We’re just contented to use the technology we have at hand, that’s all that matters to us. If I told you about something like Credence before Jarva made his discoveries, you would have laughed in my face. What would we do now without Credence?”

He took another sip from his almost cold coffee.

“What do we really know about our brain? What do we know about our skills? Very little. Until today, telepaths only existed in science fiction novels. What lunacy is in store for us, next? I don’t know, nobody knows. Let’s just keep our eyes open and get ready to ride it when it comes ...”

Trumaine finished his coffee with a shiver of disgust, then watched the various expressions fighting over Firrell’s face: disbelief, irritation, doubt.

None of them won. Firrell’s features eased into a wary acceptance.

“Okay,” he said. “My mind is as open as any served oyster can be. We have a telepath in Credence. How do we catch him?”

This time, it was Trumaine who frowned. They had come to the trickiest part of the problem.

“Benedict thinks I should enter the chamber and offer my mind as the bait. But it’s only going to work if the telepath gets into my head. If I realize he’s in. If I can identify him from the things he’s done when he was in.”

“My very open mind tells me we’re treading on very thin ice here, Tru.” pouted Firrell.

“Yes, it’s an awful lot of ‘ifs.’”

Firrell sighed, then became serious all of a sudden and Trumaine knew it meant bad news. The captain retrieved a folder from his right and pushed it across the table.

“Take a look at this. It came in one hour ago. It’s from the Transport Security Administration.”

Trumaine started rifling through the folder.

“They’ve lost contact with the Hibiscus, a 350,000-ton-displacement shuttle en route for Alpha Centauri,” illustrated Firrell. “Along with 4,500 settlers, the crew, terraforming machines and materials worth seven billion dollars.”

“Christ ...”

“The TSA has run a full-scale simulation through their big computers. The predictions converge toward one hypothesis: the glitch isn’t in the system—the glitch is human.”

Firrell made a long pause.

“Their eyes are fixed on Credence, Chris. According to them, the glitch that sent the Hibiscus astray took place about the same time when Jarva and his wife were being killed. As crazy as it might seem, the theory of a mole inside Credence would match the conclusions of the TSA.”

Firrell contemplated Trumaine’s worried frown. “I pray to God this isn’t another Minnie-Maru ...” he said in a whisper.

To his surprise, Trumaine slammed the document back on the desktop.

“They lost a ship? It’s federal turf now, I’m out of it. And this goes for Jarva’s murder as well. If the two things are tied, it all goes in a big box under a crisp ribbon. With our best wishes to the Feds ...”

Firrell scoffed amusedly, then slid over the document he had been reading when Trumaine had entered the room.

“This is fresh news from our friends—the Feds. It says they have cross-checked the feed delivered yesterday to Credence with the archival copy at the TSA. The feeds match. Credence’s hasn’t been tampered with. For once, the Feds agree with the conclusions of the TSA. What happened to the Hibiscus originated from Credence after the feed was administered—”

“I don’t give a damn, I’m out of it.”

“They have concluded that, since the responsible of all our troubles is a man, all it takes to catch him is a hound. Guess what? The Feds believe you’re the best hound in the field. You have just been given clearance to work on their behalf ...”

Trumaine stood on his feet, angrily shoving his chair out of the way.

“Don’t you get it?” he growled. “They’re looking for a ghost! If the killer is a telepath, we don’t stand a chance in the world to catch him! The Feds know that far too well, that’s why they want me! Not because I’m good or anything, that’s bullshit. They want me because it just so happens I’m already on the Jarva case. I’ll be their scapegoat! It’s me they will throw their blame on when I don’t get the telepath! And they will, Grant, believe me. Because I won’t get the bastard. Nobody is gonna get him.”

“They trust you, Chris—the same way I do,” said Firrell curling his lips into a friendly smile.

“They would trust anyone to save their sorry asses!”

“There is something in it for you, too ...”

“I don’t need another coffee machine, Grant.”

Firrell scoffed. “It ain’t a coffee machine.”

“I don’t need a promotion.”

“It ain’t a promotion, either. I couldn’t get them to put it into writing, but they gave me their word: if you catch the killer ... they will intercede with the embassy to get you a first-class Aquarian citizenship.”

Trumaine’s scowl had frozen on his face: “Say it again ...”

“Get the darned mole and you shall go back to Aquaria, Chris. Back to her.”

The patient, amicable eyes of Firrell glanced up and Trumaine knew his captain only meant well.

Because Firrell was one of a kind. He was one of the few last of an extinguishing race of cops that had its roots in the past centuries. They were born bold and rugged, at times violent and irresponsible, but they had something the rest of the younger hotshots in the force who behaved like efficient and soulless robots lacked: they were capable of understanding the feelings of the people who worked for them, from the strain of pressure to the frustration of coming out empty-handed in a case. Under Firrell’s hardened skin, there was a man for whom the word ‘loyalty’ still had a meaning.

“Would they really do it?” wondered Trumaine.

“I told them I couldn’t keep you on the case. I explained to them I had to give you something in exchange. Something that really mattered to you. They agreed. You’re gonna get your citizenship as soon as you find the murderer.”

There was a long silence. Trumaine looked torn. Even if he trusted Firrell, he didn’t put much stock in a promise from the Feds.

“I need to think this over, Grant ...”

“I knew you were going to accept!”

“Hey, I didn’t say that ... I just—”

The phone on Firrell’s desk rang of a sudden, interrupting Trumaine. The captain picked up.

“Firrell.”

He listened in silence. The more he listened the more his brow furrowed. Trumaine could see for himself this could only mean more bad news and he rolled his eyes in frustration. He could only hope it had nothing to do with the Jarvas’ murder and with the Credence development.

Firrell hung up with a low whistle.

“Who was that?”

“The TSA,” said Firrell, darkly.

“Tell me they have found the ship.”

“You wish they had ... No. This is another brick on our heads. The TSA has just shut down all intergalactic flights for fear of losing another ship. This means that without shipments, the outposts in the galaxy that have already depleted their water stocks won’t be resupplied,” said Firrell.

Trumaine swore. He could just imagine the rest.

“They will start to die in three days ...” he said.