Seeing a large potted plant next to the entrance, Eadan momentarily considered dragging it over to the man, blocking the view of him from outside the lobby, but thought better of it.
“Can I help you?” Eadan asked doubtfully.
“I’m Detective Crawley, RPD,” the man replied.
“Yes, of course,” the manager said. “I was told to expect you, but I was expecting someone... else.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Eadan motioned toward the elevator. “This way.”
Once inside the lift, the manager attempted a more cordial tone.
“Obviously, we’re very concerned about appearances,” Eadan said. “The thought of one of our tenants being murdered could damage our reputation.”
“That’s not my problem,” Crawley said.
“All we ask is a level of decorum in your investigation. There’s no reason the other tenants need to know about this, is there?”
“Well, I guess that all depends on you.”
The manager’s eyebrow rose slightly. “How so?”
“I usually canvass the apartments near the crime scene,” Crawley went on. “You know, to see if anybody heard or saw anything unusual.”
“Is this canvassing really necessary?”
“Not if I concluded the murder was an open and shut case.”
Eadan thought for a moment.
“What if you were motivated to do so?” he asked.
“Well, I can’t imagine what kind of motivation that would entail.”
The Dahl fumbled awkwardly in his pocket and produced a small, plastic chip.
“Would this suffice?”
Detective Crawley took the chip. The tiny LED display on the cred stick read 500. “Yeah, that’ll be enough.”
“Good,” the Dahl replied as the elevator door opened with a rush of air.
Outside the elevator, Forensicbot 42 waited patiently in the hallway. The robot was painted black except for a silver trim and the lettering F-42 stenciled in yellow.
“Detective Crawley, I presume?” the robot asked.
“Where are the other detectives?” Crawley replied.
“I was the only unit sent here, sir.”
“Well, that’s damn peculiar.”
“Indeed,” F-42 said.
“Excuse me,” the manager interrupted. “May I go now?”
Crawley scowled at the Dahl. “I’ll let you know if I need you.”
Eadan smiled, looking relieved, and disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.
“Alright,” the detective said, “what have you done so far?”
“Except for preliminary scans,” F-42 said, “I’ve left the crime scene as undisturbed as possible, sir.”
“Well, don’t just stand there, take me to the apartment!”
“Very good, sir!”
F-42 led Detective Crawley down the hallway and around a corner to a door marked 3417. The robot opened the door and walked in, its gait mechanical but steady.
The apartment was lavish, but not gaudy. The floor plan was open, the living room in the center with a kitchen attached to the right. The furnishings were mostly beige leather covered with decorative throws and pillows. A large TV monitor hung above the fireplace. On the screen, a commercial showed a grav car in the background, on fire and smoking. In the middle of the scene, a man approached holding a bouquet of roses toward a woman in the foreground with her hands on each hip. The scene faded to pink with the tag line:
NOTHING SAYS “SORRY”
LIKE SADIRA FLOWERS...
“Computer,” Crawley said, “turn off the TV.”
The screen turned black.
“Get a load of this place,” Crawley went on. “This living room’s bigger than my whole apartment.”
“I live in a closet,” the robot replied, hoping to create a friendly rapport.
“Shut up and show me the body.”
F-42 took the detective down a side corridor to an open doorway and into the bedroom. The floor was cluttered with clothing, including a woman’s panties. Crawley, leaning down, snatched the underwear off the carpet and slipped it discretely into his coat pocket.
“The body is over there,” F-42 pointed.
On the bed, a nude woman lay with the sheets covering her lower half. Her left arm hung over the side while her cold, dead eyes greeted Crawley with sharp indifference.
“You got a name for this lady?” the detective asked.
“Fingerprints identify her as Jolana Valeria, a 23-year old originally from Middleton.”
“How could a girl from Middleton afford a place in West End?” Crawley wondered aloud. “Cause of death?”
“Asphyxia,” F-42 said. “Her hyoid bone is broken, indicating she died from manual strangulation.”
“Good.”
“One other item,” the robot said. “The murder appears to have occurred either during or shortly after coitus.”
“Ahhh,” the detective’s attention perked up. “Now we’re getting somewhere. I bet she’s a prostitute and the john didn’t want to pay. I see that shit all the time in Ashetown, though you’d think the guys around here could afford it. Cheap bastards.”
“I took samples, but I’ll need the lab at the station to test them.”
F-42 examined the detective while he did the same to the body. Of the two, the robot found the corpse less puzzling. A dead human was far more understandable. They no longer suffered bouts of uncontrolled emotions like anger or sadness. Living beings, at least the non-cybernetic kind, were often unpredictable based on their moods or intuitions or what kind of sandwich they ate for lunch.
The robot heard a faint warbling. The detective removed a datapad from his coat and looked at the screen. Instead of a video feed, only text appeared. F-42 didn’t know why someone would only send text, but humans were apt to do strange things from time to time. Perhaps it was a joke somebody thought was funny enough to share with the detective. Humor was also something the robot found mystifying. Sarcasm was especially lost on the forensic unit. It must not have been a joke, however, or at least Detective Crawley didn’t seem to get it. He had a strange look on his face as if he didn’t entirely understand what he had just read.
“Are you alright, sir?” the forensicbot asked.
Crawley nodded as he put his datapad away, his arm remaining in his coat.
“You haven’t uploaded any of your findings, have you?” he asked.
“No, sir,” the robot replied. “I was waiting for your authorization.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Crawley pulled his arm out of the coat. Instead of a datapad, he held a blaster, which he pointed at the robot.
This was curious behavior to say the least, thought F-42. He wondered, for perhaps a millisecond, whether this was another example of humor. He waited, calmly and without moving, for the detective to put away the weapon, smile and then laugh. Instead, Crawley squeezed the trigger, sending a flash of superheated plasma across the room.
Very odd indeed, the robot thought just as the energy bolt impacted the outer casing between his eyes. The plasma continued, melting plastic and fusing circuits, until it reached the back of the casing. A fountain of sparks, smoke, and bits of formerly expensive electronics showered over the furniture. F-42 took a step forward and fell to the floor with a loud, metallic crash.
Although the Emperor’s Council met at the Imperial Palace, the offices of the archsenators remained in the Senate building. Archsenator Malcolm Tarkio’s own office was small compared to those of the more senior members of the Council, but he was confident he would move into better accommodations eventually. Even so, he was happy with the view. Through the double-pane windows, Tarkio could see the Grand Marching Grounds where military parades were held, and a portion of the Victory Arch straddling the reflecting pool. Due to some trees, he couldn’t quite see the patriotic statues flanking either side of the pool. It was all pageantry, the archsenator knew, to demonstrate the might of the I
mperial crown and its military. It was also a great place to have lunch or get your picture taken, as tourists often did throughout the day.
Tarkio sat at his desk, a mahogany monstrosity with fluted, hand-carved pillars at each corner. A computer monitor sat on the top, clashing with the antique appearance of the desk. The archsenator was looking over polling results from the last election. While the numbers were good, Tarkio thought that a few well-placed attack ads against his next opponent couldn’t hurt. There’s always another election, he knew. Better to get a step ahead of the competition before they did the same to him.
A notification popped up on his screen. Someone from the RPD was calling.
“Computer,” Tarkio said, “Answer.”
The screen changed from a spreadsheet to the image of a middle-aged woman with gray hair.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Tarkio said.
“I wanted to give you an update on that issue we spoke of,” she said.
“To be honest, I was beginning to worry.”
“No need to worry,” the Lieutenant said. “It’s been taken care of.”
“That’s a relief!”
“Not a problem, Archsenator. Have a good day.”
The Lieutenant’s image disappeared.
Tarkio sighed. He felt regret for what happened, but he knew nothing would be gained by dwelling on it. There was too much at stake, both for himself and his constituents. After all, they voted for him and now it was his responsibility to represent their best interests. He shouldn’t just throw that away because of a mistake he never intended to make.
He smiled, confident that he made the right decision.
Another prompt appeared on his monitor screen.
“Computer, answer.”
A man’s face, poorly shaved and creased with experience, looked back at the archsenator.
“Hello?” Tarkio said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Crawley from the RPD,” the man said.
“Oh, of course. I just spoke with the Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, I’m the guy she sent to take care of your little problem.”
“Ah,” he said, “how exactly did you get this number?”
“Well, I’m a detective after all. It’s kind of what I do.”
“Yes, I understand that,” the archsenator said. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to hear from you directly. As I said, I just talked to your Lieutenant.”
The left side of Crawley’s mouth curled, exposing some of his yellow teeth.
“Oh, the Lieutenant doesn’t know about this conversation,” he said, slipping a cigarette between his lips. “It’s more of a personal call.”
Tarkio’s mouth devolved into a frown. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, senator or archsenator — whatever you call yourself — I’m interested in a side deal between just you and me.”
“Perhaps I should talk to your Lieutenant again—”
“Oh, you don’t want to do that,” Crawley cut him off. “That would be bad for both of us, that much I guarantee.”
Tarkio straightened in his chair, asserting a sense of authority.
“Tell me what you want,” the archsenator said.
Smoke, expelled from Crawley’s mouth, clouded the view on the monitor, but Tarkio could still see the smirk on the detective’s face.
“You made a big mess and I’m the guy who cleaned it up for you,” Crawley said. “I expect to be compensated.”
“Were you not paid enough through my arrangement with the RPD?”
Crawley laughed. “No, not by a long shot!”
“Then what are you suggesting, detective?”
“A sizable donation to my campaign,” the policeman said, laughing at his own joke.
“And if I don’t pay?” Tarkio asked.
“Picture the headline,” Crawley said. “Archsenator murders prostitute! Details on VOX News!”
Tarkio felt the sweat accumulating around the crown of his forehead. His heart beat hard against the inside of his chest.
“Alright, Detective Crawley,” he said. “Let’s meet in person and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Crawley pulled the cigarette from his mouth, grinning with all of his teeth this time.
“And that’s how we do things,” he said, “in Ashetown.”
Chapter Eleven
Captain Harrison of the Imperial yacht HIMS Victoria watched Aldorus through the bridge monitors as the ship orbited the planet. A Tikarin, tufts of gray fur poked up from under the stiff collar of his uniform.
Harrison had received his commission through a naval program to promote minorities in a military predominated by humans. He knew it was a token measure to reassure the liberal wing of the senate that the Imperium was a progressive empire. Nevertheless, he appreciated the assignment. Commanding the Imperial yacht, even if it was ostensibly part of the Navy, was better than getting shot at by pirates or the occasional Magna raider.
Even if the door is only open an inch, it’s a good idea to stick your toe in, he thought.
The captain straightened his attire, a blue uniform with silver buttons up the left side.
High above the capital Regalis, Victoria’s orbit was taking the ship over less populated parts of the planet. While the nobles, especially the Five Families, owned much of the real estate, a few largely untouched areas still existed. Captain Harrison, an amateur geographer, recognized many of the land masses, not to mention those of a hundred other worlds he had visited.
“Where is Princess Katherine at the moment?” he asked his first mate.
“Her Highness is in the observation lounge, Captain,” the mate replied.
“Ah, perfect!” Harrison said. “Patch me into the lounge.”
“Aye, sir!”
“Your Highness, this is Captain Harrison. Outside the windows, you can now see the Palatine Mountains coming into view, where the famous Dharmesh Monastery is located.
A young woman’s voice came over the intercom, “Ah, thanks?”
Captain Harrison glanced at the ceiling, rolling his eyes. He made a throat-cutting gesture to the first mate who terminated the comm.
Pears before swine, Harrison thought.
On the observation deck, Princess Katherine and Lady Sophia lay on stuffed chairs, staring at the planet through a panoramic window taking up much of the curved wall in front of them.
“It’s quite beautiful,” Sophia remarked.
“Maybe from up here,” the princess said.
“I suppose things look better from a distance.”
Behind them, Katherine’s maidbot Dotty was at the bar, mixing a pair of cocktails.
“Speaking of which,” the princess said, “we can’t leave until Alexander gets here. Richard’s orders...”
“Prince Alexander was never one for punctuality,” Sophia said.
Katherine’s focus shifted from Aldorus to her own reflection in the window and then to Lady Sophia’s pallid face hovering beside her like a ghost.
“Aren’t you a wee bit anxious to see Alexander?” Katherine asked.
“Not at all.”
“Liar!” the princess said, prodding Sophia with a finger.
Sophia gently swiped Katherine’s hand away. “I’ll never tell.”
“You shouldn’t keep secrets from me!”
“Secrets keep the world spinning,” Sophia said. “The truth is too scary for most people.”
“Not for me.”
“No?”
“I’m not a little girl,” Katherine said. “Apparently, I’m old enough to get married off...”
“Only if the price is right,” Sophia said, her voice so low the Princess nearly didn’t hear it.
“Exactly!” Katherine replied.
“I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Katherine said. “I’m just a digit in somebody’s spreadsheet.”
Dotty tottered over to the two women in their reclinin
g chairs. Each took a margarita from the tray the robot was holding, sending her back to make more.
“Why did you break up with my brother?” Katherine asked suddenly.
Sophia’s eyes widened. “What?”
Katherine laughed. “Sorry.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m just curious.”
“It’s nothing worth divulging,” Sophia said. “I’ve added the whole affair to my list of regrets.”
“Then why did you break up with him?”
“I didn’t. He broke up with me.”
Katherine’s mouth made an O-shape. “That little shit!”
Lady Sophia took a long sip from her glass.
With a hiss and a crackle, Prince Alexander and his bodyguard, Lefty Lucy, materialized on the transmat pad aboard the Victoria. Both stood on the dais, looking at the transmat officer who had an expression of relief that they hadn’t arrived as a pile of goo.
“Welcome aboard, Your Highness,” he said.
“Thanks for the lift,” Prince Alexander replied.
Once in the adjoining passageway, Alexander sighed.
“What an enormous waste of time,” he said.
Walking beside him, Lucy was completely silent.
“I mean,” Alexander continued, “does Richard really think shipping me off is going to keep me out of trouble?”
Lucy said nothing.
Alexander glanced at Aldorus through the windows in the corridor. “But I guess it’ll be good to get out of town for a while. No sense sticking around with my cousin Rupert on the warpath.”
Lucy didn’t disagree, or agree, or say anything else for that matter.
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have punched him,” the prince said, “but he had it coming, right? Nobody talks about you like that. He’s lucky I didn’t have my sword. Now that would’ve been a proper duel!”
A pair of ensigns, dressed in their blue uniforms, stopped when they saw the prince and bowed.
“Hello,” Alexander said, saluting as he and Lucy walked by.
Even without looking, the prince knew Lucy was sizing up the two ensigns, perhaps imagining a scenario that involved cutting their throats as she hung upside down from the ceiling. She was funny that way.
Imperium Chronicles Box Set Page 11
