Superego by Frank J. Fleming Page B

terrorists, but that seemed like a really odd use of my time. And they were going to be some very dead terrorists…as long as I could get a little leeway from the real law enforcement.
    She stopped and faced me. “Rico, you’re new here, and people don’t expect you to know the rules. Is it okay if I exploit that when I question a few people?” Diane smiled a mischievous smile, which also was quite pretty on her. I would enjoy her exploiting me for all sorts of things.
    This would be my first time not working alone. At least I could have done worse for a partner.

CHAPTER 12
    Why did the syndicate want me to hunt terrorists? Pretty much everyone likes terrorists to be killed, but a bunch of religious fanatics trying to blow people up seemed a bit beneath Nystrom’s concern.
    I was usually fine with not knowing the why, but this time I had the feeling it might have personal ramifications for me. With the violent siege on Zaldia and the conference here that would give the Alliance the power to take on Nystrom directly, big things were underway…yet here I was apparently on a side venture. Still, Anthony Burke had personally assigned me this job because he wanted me to know how important it was. Then I almost got blown up at a café. I was starting to think I should be more concerned with the big picture. What was Nystrom’s game here? And where were my damn contacts?
    â€œYou’re very contemplative, you know that?” Diane seemed to be only half-paying attention to me at the moment. She was watching out the window as the car took us to the edge of the city. Her mind was certainly on the task at hand, but she apparently wasn’t done observing me—whether out of habit or true suspicion, I couldn’t quite tell.
    â€œThere’s a lot to contemplate.” I have to concentrate in order to be talkative; it’s tiring and hard to keep up. “You haven’t told me much about the plan yet.”
    â€œIt’s still in progress.”
    â€œAnything for me to do?”
    She handed me some photos. “We have what you left of the terrorists pictured here.”
    I flipped through them quickly. I don’t really like looking at dead people. So ugly and broken. “Do you think you know people who might have seen this group?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “No one who would be forthcoming. But I also have pictures of their weapons.”
    I looked at one. It was the typical cheaply made automatic rifle, but I didn’t recognize the exact model. There are so many gun manufacturers on so many different planets that firearms were often extremely unique. It was rare to run into one you recognized.
    â€œSome people might have seen those guns, and I know who to ask,” she said. The detective landed her vehicle in an old parking structure. “You ready?” She put on dark glasses. “These are my interrogation glasses—very important. They make me look serious, and I can remove them dramatically to make a point.”
    â€œShould I be writing these tips down?”
    She laughed. “Seriously, I’ll just want you to stand behind me and look tough.”
    â€œI don’t know how to not look tough.” I actually do, though. I hunch a bit, talk slightly higher-pitched—it’s not too hard.
    â€œGood. Let’s go.”
    We were certainly in a bad part of town, judging from the worn-down buildings with broken windows and graffiti on the walls. People around here had little—which you might think would cause them to take good care of the little they had. But the opposite seemed more often to be true.
    We came to a shop with a fading, handmade sign labeled, “Shakey’s Repair.” She turned to me, her expression serious. “You’re just observing right now, you got that?”
    â€œYou don’t have to worry about me.”
    Inside, a middle-aged human male was hunched over some disassembled