The Constable: An intergalactic Space Opera Thriller

by J. N. Chaney

  J. N. Chaney

  Copyrighted Material

  The Constable Copyright © 2019 by Variant Publications

  Book design and layout copyright © 2019 by JN Chaney

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from JN Chaney.

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  The Constable

  Book 1 in the Constable Series

  J.N. Chaney

  Book Description

  The Constable

  The Constable Series #1

  My name is Alphonse Malloy, and I see everything.

  From a simple glance, I know your hobbies, what you ate for breakfast, how well you slept, and whether or not your wife is secretly seeing the high school biology teacher when you're not around.

  I can't explain how or why I get these feelings, only that I know they're true.

  All the little secrets you're too afraid to tell. Sometimes, that means helping people. Other times, it means staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

  I wish I could tell you I was using this ability for good.

  I wish I could tell you a lot of things.

  For Rob,

  The smartest man I know

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Preview: The Amber Project

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  About the Author

  1

  Test-taking produces a peculiar silence. Every sound becomes deliberate and magnified. Even the tapping of a foot sends a signal.

  I briefly wondered if it would be feasible to grade a test simply by watching the behavior of the test takers. There would always be anomalies, but I felt fairly certain I could deduce the performance of each student within a few percentage points. Clarence, for example, tapped his finger against the side of his seat when he was uncertain about an answer. I had observed this enough times to note it as a consistent behavior. However, not everyone showed such obvious tells or I simply didn’t know them well enough to see it. In those cases, one could examine the movement of the eyes, the way their bodies shifted in their seats, or the rate of their breathing. I saw all of it, even without trying, and somehow I knew their thinking without fully understanding how I knew it.

  As for my own test, I had finished it fifteen minutes prior but had yet to submit it. I sat at my desk, hands poised over the tablet as I waited to write down my final answer. I had completed it in my mind after only a few minutes, but turning in a test too quickly aroused suspicion of cheating, lucky guesses, or other interventions, and I had learned the hard way that wherever true excellence arose, suspicion was quick to follow.

  I allowed my gaze to drift around the room, but only my gaze. If I had to turn my head, it meant I’d have to feign a stretch or another useless motion and, honestly, it was more effort than it was worth. I sat one row behind the middle to get a better view of the majority of the class, giving me the insight I craved into how my peers were faring with the assignment. Too far back and the teacher might think me a loafer. Too far forward and every action might draw unwanted attention.

  Arthur was going to be done soon. He was in the front corner near the door. A poor position. Not only was his field of view limited, but it was the seat delinquents frequently sought when they arrived late to class and didn’t want to appear disruptive. Arthur made enemies he didn’t need by sitting there.

  I noted the little jerk Arthur made when he entered his final review phase. He sat upright a bit harder, running his hand across the back of his neck.

  I submitted my test and focused on Mr. Fenton. He was always a disinterested teacher. None of the eagle-eyed vigilance of Crenshaw or Mrs. Logan. Fenton’s hands-off and eyes-down style had been helpful in avoiding confrontation for me so far, but today was different.

  Fenton was more than just disinterested. He hunched on his desk over his table, his small frame nearly doubled in on itself as he did his best rendition of nonchalantly blocking any peering at his work.

  I made a mental note to talk to him after class, if for no other reason than to express my observation about test sounds.

  Arthur finished his review and sent his test. He gave himself a moment for a broad smile and a turn to revel in the satisfaction of “beating” everyone else.

  I met his gaze as he turned, and he gave me a sly grin to show his dominance. “Arrogance is a poor face worn by a fool,” my father told me once.

  I was four years old at the time.

  The test now over, the students hurried to leave. As the final period of the day, Mr. Fenton’s class always saw a quick exodus, and even Arthur remained behind only for the briefest of head-nodding and gloating. Within two minutes, all of the other students were out of the room.

  I spent the time making a show of cleaning up my bag and looking for something “important.” I approached Mr. Fenton.
“How are things?”

  Fenton leaned over his tablet and looked up with a pinch at the corner of his right eye. “Oh, fine, fine. Thank you for asking. Always good to see the students taking a moment.” He smiled.

  I was unconvinced. Something was off, evidenced by the repetition of language and the positioning of the body. That pinch in the eye had to mean something.

  “Good to hear, Mr. Fenton. See you tomorrow.” I left the room and followed the wall absently with one hand as I considered the information I had just received.

  I greeted the secretary and provided my name.

  She gave a curt nod. “What is this about?”

  I took a seat to the side of the door. “A small issue with my last class. It won’t take much of the headmaster’s time.”

  Her expression remained that blank look of anyone forced into a service role without the underpinning passion. “I’ll let him know.”

  No sooner had she finished speaking than the door opened. Headmaster Corrin gave a broad smile. His was genuine with a certain iron reinforcement, eyes engaged and brow raised slightly. Here was a man that cared about his job and its intrinsic purpose.

  “Come inside, Alphonse.”

  I walked through the door and took a seat. Headmaster Corrin let the door close and sat on the edge of his desk. “What are we doing here today?”

  “It’s about Mr. Fenton. I’m certain he’s stealing from the school.”

  Corrin drew himself up a little in shock. “Why would you even suggest that?”

  I puzzled over the question for a moment. Proof was required, and my gut feeling wouldn’t carry enough weight. “I overheard him,” I said, knowing it was a lie. “He was on a call after class bragging about how he was ‘getting away with it’ and ‘nobody suspected him in the slightest.’”

  Corrin frowned his disapproval. “I don’t think you knew what you were hearing.”

  His statement didn’t entirely surprise me. I’d brought Corrin information about other illegal activities I’d noticed in the past, largely among the students. These observations ranged from drug use to sexual harassment. Some things I didn’t report on, such as cheating or skipping class, but the larger and more dangerous activities always found their way to his ear. I’d done this for several months, slowly building our trust, though I couldn’t say why I was doing it.

  “I’m not expecting you to take my word,” I continued. “Open an investigation on Fenton and find your proof. Quietly, if you must, to save your reputation.”

  Corrin sighed then breathed quietly for a moment before speaking. “There have been a few misappropriations of funds, I’ll give you that. These were small at first, and it seems like a system error is unlikely.” He seemed to be thinking out loud.

  I waited for the but.

  “But accusing a teacher is a serious matter. The accusation alone could destroy the man’s career. I won’t hear of it. Anything else?”

  “I think some of the students may have been cheating. If you review Mr. Fenton’s pad, there may be evidence.”

  “Of cheating, or something else?” he asked, cocking his brow.

  “Yes,” I said, simply.

  Corrin walked back to the door. “I’ll look into the matter. I trust you won’t be speaking to anyone else?”

  I stood up. “Thank you for your attention on this matter, Headmaster.”

  It was out of my hands and, at this point, I felt satisfied.

  2

  Four days later, I was called into the headmaster’s office during lunch period. The secretary—a stuffy woman by the name of Ms. Clare Dofaine—indicated I was free to eat while I waited for Headmaster Corrin to arrive.

  I took the opportunity to actually enjoy my meal for once. In the cafeteria, it was important to move along swiftly. The tables only supported so many students at any given time, leaving many waiting in line to be seated. This provided a sense of urgency, likely an intentional choice by the school board to cycle as many students through as possible in under an hour. It kept us from returning for second servings, as it happened, and consequently lowered the school’s costs. I always endeavored to be done within ten minutes, before the next group could arrive. This gave me better vantages to observe and avoid being boxed in by the press of bodies. Regardless, the quiet of the headmaster’s office provided an interesting change of pace.

  I slowly ate the balanced but not always appetizing offerings of protein and carbs in the meal and let myself take in features of the office that were normally at the periphery when Headmaster Corrin was there.

  The right wall was bare, save for a window with a blind. This looked out into the grounds and allowed the headmaster to view some of the sports and intramurals that took place below.

  The left wall held a bookcase with a few precious real paper books. The titles related to pedagogy of a time long past. Baudelaire, Rosseau, Teffling, and the still-living Herickson.

  The back wall contained several plaques and awards. These weren’t too impressive, the kind of mid-tier acknowledgements given to a fair but unremarkable public servant. Lists of educational achievements that amounted to little more than completing courses and attending talks.

  A portrait of an admiral from the past was the only true stand-out in the décor. He wore a placid expression meant to show strength, wisdom, or resolve. The right epaulette featured fringe, a star, and a bar.

  I sat quietly, looking at the image for some time. Despite my intent to slow down, the meal was still completed by the time Headmaster Corrin arrived.

  He slipped in through the smallest opening he could make in the doorway. No sooner was his frame through the entrance than he had closed it behind him. He seated himself at the desk and sighed.

  “You were right, Alphonse. I called up a log on Fenton’s personal pad from the last several weeks. Our official reasoning involved an investigation into cheating, as you suggested, by some students with unusually high testing scores.”

  “I see,” I replied with a soft nod.

  He called up a display and projected it where I could see. “There was nothing unusual in the access or activity logs on the pad. The resource usage was another thing.” He pulled down the first projection and it was replaced with another readout with highlighted peaks along a graph. “Here is the problem. These peaks of processing power correspond with times when the recreational fund was accessed and transfers were made.”

  He gave me a worried look and closed out the projection. “The academy appreciates you bringing this to our attention. Mr. Fenton was relieved of his position a few minutes ago.”

  A sudden knock on the door had Corrin jumping to his feet. The door opened and a woman I recognized from a photo on the headmaster’s desk came in. “Rupert, you forgot your lunch this morning.” She held a sealed container in her left hand and tugged on her coat with her right even as she pressed the door shut behind her.

  She paused as she saw me, and her smile dropped for a moment before it grew wider. “I see. I didn’t realize you had a student.” She nodded to me. “My apologies.” Then she turned back to Corrin and said, “Here you go,” before setting the container on his desk.

  There was a difference in her posture as she turned to the door. A rigidness to her step and a tremble in her hand now free of the container. “I’ll let you get back to work.” She nodded at me. “Be good now.”

  The door closed, a hint of vanilla and the slight sound of fabric shifting remaining behind. Corrin sat down again, taking a moment before continuing our conversation. “If you see anything else, let me know,” he said, looking at me. “Though I hope there will be no further incidents like this. You are excused.”

  I stood and took a step toward the door. “Are you sure you want to know about anything I notice?” I asked him.

  The headmaster was distracted as he opened his lunch. His eyes lit up and he paused unexpectedly as he peered at the contents. “What? Oh, yes. Anything you come across that strikes you as unusual. You’ve done
a fine job of reporting. We’ve expelled fourteen students and now a teacher because of you, and the school is better off.” He paused. “So, yes, keep it coming.”

  I nodded beside the door, then turned to face him completely, placing both hands behind my back. “Your wife is cheating on you.”

  For a moment, Corrin did nothing. Then his eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a choked whisper. “What?”

  I let the words linger in the air, knowing it would take him time to process. “She’s having an affair. She’s headed to meet with her lover now. If you follow her, you will see.”

  Corrin said nothing at first. His eyes flickered between me and the door, a growing fear in them as he began to understand what I’d told him. “G-Get out. Get out of this office at once.”

  I did as he asked, not bothering with a response. I knew I was right, and it wouldn’t take long before the headmaster saw the truth as well.

  I returned to class the following morning, ready for another mundane day of so-called learning. I was barely in the door when Ms. Dofaine stopped me from the hall and motioned for me to approach. “The headmaster wants to speak to you.” She pointed in the direction of his office. “This way, please.”