Earth Unaware (First Formic War)

not know this was going on? Was he actually innocent? Imala couldn’t deny that it was possible. The man had hundreds of thousands of employees. He couldn’t know the actions of all of them. And none of the evidence she had found implicated Ukko in any way, not directly at least.
    Ukko said, “You and I both know that no one in the private sector will even glance at your résumé until you’ve done five years at the LTD, Imala. I’m offering you an early out. I know the bureaucracy you’re dealing with. I know you must hate it. And you’ve been there, what, six months?”
    Seven months, thirteen days, thought Imala. Enough time to know she loved the work and hated the people. Aloud she said, “It didn’t cross your mind that hiring me would be a conflict of interest considering the pending investigation? I can’t possibly accept, Mr. Jukes.”
    “I haven’t even told you the salary.”
    “It doesn’t matter. It would taint the investigation. It would look like hush money.”
    He told her the salary.
    It was a lot of money, though not too much that it looked like a bribe. It was probably comparable to what people with a few more years experience than her were making these days in the private sector. And hadn’t she proved that she was just as capable as they were, if not more so? It was exactly the salary she knew she deserved. For a moment she hesitated. More income meant she could get out of that closet of an apartment she was staying in and start paying off her student loans. Maybe even send money home.
    No. What was she thinking? He was buying her off. Just as he had bought off Seabright and Pendergrass. How could she forget Pendergrass? The snake had tossed her into the lion’s den.
    “Stop the car,” she said.
    “Am I to take this as a no to my offer?”
    “You may take it as a hell no and you can shove it up that wrinkly white butt of yours. You’re not buying me off.”
    His expression remained impassive. “You’re making a mistake, Imala. I am offering you an opportunity here.”
    “You’re removing me from the investigation,” she said. “You’re mopping up. Make me go away, and your stooges in the LTD make the whole investigation go away. Tell me if I’m getting warm here.”
    Ukko flicked his wrist, and the car pulled to the curb. Imala’s door opened.
    “Enjoy your lunch, Imala. I hope you’ll show more respect the next time someone merely offers you what you deserve.”
    She started to get out.
    “And one more thing,” said Ukko. “A bit of unsolicited advice. Get to know people before you write them off as black-hearted scoundrels. You’re a quick judge of character, Imala. And you’re not always right.”
    She got out. The door closed. The car zipped back into traffic and disappeared.
    She looked around her. She was in the French Quarter, an upscale part of town with quaint shops selling chocolates and perfumes and ridiculously priced clothing. Every street in the city was covered with shielded domes that protected against solar radiation and that kept in air and heat, but only in the French Quarter were the dome ceilings painted the light blue color of Earth sky with the occasional white of fluffy clouds. Imala hated it. It was like everyone she worked with at the LTD. Fake and phony.
    Across the street was a restaurant. Pendergrass and his dimwit vixen were sitting at a table outside, eating pasta through semi-sealed containers. Imala must have been doing circles with Ukko if Pendergrass had beaten her here. He saw her, smiled, and waved at her to come join them. Imala turned on her heels and began walking back toward the office, ignoring him. If she crossed the street and approached Pendergrass she was fairly certain she’d grab his pasta and smear it in his face.
    *   *   *
    It took Imala well over an hour to get back to the LTD, and that was after removing her greaves and taking big moon leaps down the sidewalk in the lesser gravity. She got contemptuous looks from people since moonwalking was unfashionable in the French Quarter, but Imala didn’t care. It’s the Moon, people. Get over it.
    A message was waiting in the holospace at her cubicle. It read, COME TO MY OFFICE. ROOM 414.
    Imala checked the agency directory, worried that the room was assigned to one of the auditors she had fingered. She was relieved when she saw that it wasn’t. A senior auditor named Fareed Bakárzai, whom Imala didn’t know, occupied the space. She felt leery about being