Chapter Text
Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it.
—G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday
"I always like this bit," Zoë said, as we climbed into the T-Mat booth.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I haven't got a clue where we're going." As she spoke, she was typing in the destination code we'd been given. "You just step into a box, and you could end up anywhere in the world."
I could see her point, but I found it worrying. She'd been given the coordinates by UNISYC, after all, and I never knew quite where I was with them. There was nothing to stop them sending us on a one-way trip to the bottom of a coal mine. I'd heard the stories, however exaggerated they must have been. But I'd known Zoë long enough that I was used to the way she enjoyed, once in a while, flirting with risk.
When Zoë had got in touch with me and asked if I could take a week off work, it could have been for one of two reasons. Either she'd discovered some new sport she wanted to try — or UNISYC had conscripted her for another covert mission. Either way, she liked it if she had someone along to watch her back, and I'd become her go-to person for both activities. She hadn't actually confirmed it was UNISYC until we'd met up at the T-Mat terminal, but I'd had a nasty suspicion they'd be involved. If she'd only wanted me for something like cross-country gravscooter racing, she wouldn't have been anything like as cagey.
A few seconds later, the booth had done its stuff. I relaxed slightly; we hadn't been dumped in a coal mine or in front of a firing squad. We'd arrived in a hemispherical dome, perhaps eight metres across, made of what looked like khaki-coloured plastic. The space seemed to be divided into different functions: across the dome from us there were three desks, with soldiers sitting at two of them. On our right there was a stack of crates, olive-drab and chunky, with stencilled markings. The view to our left was blocked by some kind of lightweight partition.
As well as the two soldiers at the desks, there were two more standing on guard just outside the T-Mat we'd arrived in. They'd obviously been expecting us; one opened the booth, ushered us out, and checked our fingerprints, retinal scans and identity implants. Then, before either of us could ask any questions, he led us out of the dome.
We seemed to be in the middle of a minor military encampment. There were several domes of the same sort we'd just come out of. Their outer surfaces were covered with shifting green-brown patterns that refused to come into focus no matter how much I squinted. In the gaps between the domes, I could see flattish ground stretching away, and in one direction the dull gleam of water. The sky was a solid roof of grey cloud, and a cool, fresh wind was blowing our hair about.
There was a trim, grey-haired officer waiting for us at the entrance to another one of the domes. He was wearing a dark green uniform; I couldn't place the insignia on his shoulders, but he was obviously someone of importance. Our guide came to a halt and gave him a salute, which he returned crisply.
"Good morning, Dr Heriot," he said. "Ms Carson, I don't believe we've met before. Colonel Richard Stanley."
I shook hands with him, wondering what he wanted with us. From his attitude, I gathered that he'd had dealings with Zoë before — presumably he was the person, or one of them, who'd sent her out to risk life and limb tracking down murderers and prehistoric serpent-people and who knew what else. I glanced across at her, to see how she was reacting, but she seemed to be in something of a daze.
"Sorry if I'm being stupid," I said. "But could you tell us where we are?"
He shook his head. "It's a fair question. This is the Skerburnfoot, in the Alba Subzone."
"Skerburnfoot," Zoë repeated, almost to herself. "Scotland." She shook her head. "Sorry, I was wool-gathering. What can we do for you, Colonel?"
"Let me take you to my office, and I'll show you. Give your luggage to Weston here."
We handed our bags to the soldier who'd been our previous guide, and followed the Colonel into another dome. This one was smaller, and laid out as an office. The Colonel took a seat behind the table which seemed to be the principal piece of furniture, with the two of us sitting opposite him.
"Here's the story," he said. "Back in April, an archaeological dig was taking place on the outskirts of Balcrynie, not far from here as the crow flies. Among the artefacts they discovered was a meteorite."
An image appeared on the surface of the table. It showed a grassy field, not very different from the one we'd glimpsed between the domes. Trenches had been cut into its surface here and there, with neat heaps of spoil beside them. Coloured rods presumably marked the positions of artefacts or features of interest.
The Colonel tapped the table, and the image was replaced by another. This was a close-up of one of the trenches. Lying at the bottom of the trench, with the soil dug away from it, was a lump of rock, with a half-melted look to it. It didn't look very interesting to me, but then I'm not an archaeologist.
The next picture showed the rock, still in its place, split open. The exposed surface was paler than the outside, but with a dark pattern visible on it.
Zoë leaned closer. "Is that a fossil?"
"Correct." The Colonel increased the magnification. "I'm told that it's a wing, but not of any known terrestrial bird. In structure it's closer to the bat's wing, but you can see the outline of feathers here."
"You mean it's alien?" I said.
"That was the conclusion the archaeologists reached. The find was reported under the Skyfall regulations, and two operatives were sent to retrieve it. They arrived at the site late that evening, took possession of the meteorite, and left not long before midnight. When they arrived at their destination, it was discovered that the specimen had been tampered with."
Zoë looked almost offended at the thought. "How?"
"A section of the meteorite had been removed, and replaced with a synthmatter facsimile. It would have passed a visual inspection, but not any more serious scrutiny."
"So, some time between the thing being dug up, and the operatives delivering it, it was got at?" Zoë said.
"Precisely. And since there was no sign of external intrusion, that suggests an inside job. Since then, there have been a number of similar crimes in the area, mostly thefts of money or valuables. They all share the same characteristic: the crimes cannot have been committed without inside help.
"For example, in July a United Jewels outlet was burgled. The security system failed to register any intrusion; at first it was thought to be a fault, but detailed investigation proved that it had been sabotaged, by somebody familiar with that particular installation. The only people with the knowledge and opportunity were the manager and the two cashiers who had been on duty that day. All were of excellent character — which was subsequently confirmed by parapsychic screening — and there was no evidence linking any of them to the crime.
"A week later, a drum of synthmatter feedstock was stolen from the local fabricarium. Again, the only possible suspects were those who had been working at the fabricarium that day. As with the jewellery outlet, no case could be made out against any of them, nor could any connection be proved with the earlier crime. The investigation petered out for lack of evidence. There are several more incidents in the dossier, but they're all similar in outline."
"Isn't this a matter for the police?" I asked.
"They're investigating, of course. Our interest is in recovering the first item stolen — the fossil."
"You said 'a section' of the meteorite had been removed," Zoë said. "That included the fossil, then?"
"Part of the fossil: its head, and one of the wings. Our investigators theorise that the thieves didn't have enough time to remove the rest and manufacture a suitable substitute."
"I see." Zoë sounded as if she was turning over a fresh page of a mental notebook. "Why are Lily and I here?"
"Soldiers and police are, unfortunately, conspicuous. We propose that you should pay a visit to the neighbourhood in the character of tourists, and see what information you can pick up. Except for emergencies, communication with us will be limited to encrypted longtext, keyed to the companel at your quarters."
We nodded.
"I always ask this," Zoë said. "And you never give me a straight answer, but I'm going to ask anyway. Why send me? What have I got that your people haven't?"
The Colonel smiled. "Your face."