Seshet looked stern. “I have made a special study of papyrus, Your Honor. We have here a document written on unofficial papyrus, so recently that the ink is still wet. Moreover, does it grant the right of perpetual ownership of land to the city of Henen?”
Akhethotep shook his head. “It does not.”
“Compare it, then, with the document Kanofer was taking from the Archives.”
Akhethotep took his time reading it. Kanofer shifted from foot to foot.
“It is sorcery, I tell you,” he said feebly, but no one paid any attention.
Akhethotep looked up. “This one is almost identical in the wording, but it grants perpetual rights, as you say.” He looked grimly at Kanofer. “What have you done?”
Kanofer held out his hand, pleading. “I have done nothing! And it is only a minor land dispute!”
“You know that it is not,” snapped Seshet. She turned to Akhethotep. “We have in this case two documents, one of which appears to contradict an earlier edict of Pharaoh. We have a top government official placing a forgery into the Royal Archives. Do I need to be clearer?”
Akhethotep’s gaze hardened. “You do not. Captain, remove the Chief Scribe and confine him. He will await Pharaoh’s pleasure—or more likely, displeasure.”
“No!” Kanofer struggled as the guards led him away. “I appeal to you!” But the Magistrate showed a face of granite as the Chief Scribe’s cries faded.
Akhethotep turned to Seshet. “Thank you for your service,” he said. “His Majesty will hear of your efforts on his behalf. We will hear more of this in the days to come. For now, these scrolls and the one in your office will be guarded day and night until the Vizier, or Pharaoh himself (Life! Health! Prosperity!), gives judgement.”
He bowed. Seshet bowed back, and strode past me. I bowed and followed her.
• • •
“I’m not sure I understand.”
We were back in Seshet’s office. I sat down across from her, in the same chair I had occupied that morning. It seemed a lifetime ago.
“Of course you do not,” Seshet said. Her face was lined with fatigue, but her eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s. “You see, but you do not understand. Do you remember the conversation in the dining hall, when Kanofer said one Pharaoh’s decree could not contradict another?”
“Of course,” I said. “But that is merely a courtesy, from one king to another.”
She shook her head. “It is the very foundation of the Throne,” she said. “The Pharaoh speaks through Ma’at, the embodiment of the gods. His decrees are those of the gods. They cannot be overturned. What happens if one Pharaoh contradicts another? We begin to question Pharaoh. Then we begin to question the gods—for how can they change their minds? Then we lose faith in the gods, in Pharaoh, and all becomes chaos.”
I sat looking past her, into a future of dissent, war, revolution. “I thought this was about land.”
“It was,” Seshet said. “It started out that way. A mere land grab by the priests of Set, who saw in our late King’s death an opportunity to slip a lie into the Court of Two Truths. In all the distraction of a royal funeral and then a coronation, who would bother with a minor dispute over temple properties in an obscure nome? Begging your pardon,” she said.
“But why didn’t you take the scroll to the authorities as soon as you knew it was not on royal papyrus?”
“It was not enough; I had to know not just what was afoot, but who had set it in motion. I knew that Kanofer was the son of a high priest of Set. I knew that he resented the poverty of the priests of Set, compared to the wealth held by Horus. I did not have to look far to find a suspect.
“Someone had to write that scroll you carried. I told him it was clumsily written. Did you see how annoyed he was? I knew then that he had more knowledge of it than he should. When he realized that I would consult the original grant, and invalidate your scroll, he had to act quickly.”
“When you put it like that,” I said. “It all seems so reasonable.”
“Of course. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” She yawned. “I will have the servants show you to a guest room.”
I stood and bowed. “I, and my city, owe you a great deal, Chief Librarian,” I said formally. “I could never have solved this puzzle. No one could, but you. I will petition Pharaoh for a commendation for you, on behalf of my city.”
She looked a little pleased. “Well,” she said. “It would be nice to be appreciated, but I am sure Magistrate Akhethotep will take all the credit.”
“You may have saved the Throne!” I cried. “Pharaoh should honor you! And all from noticing the way the papyrus was made! Such a little thing. It’s marvelous!”
Seshet smiled. “It has long been an axiom of mine, Physician, that the little things are infinitely the most important.”
My Dear Wa’ats
BY
Hildy Silverman
“How many stops are we expected to make?” groused Captain She’er, First Seat aboard the transgalactic cruiser Ba’akre 221B. “At this rate the passengers will have to go into cryo-sleep to avoid dying of old age.”
Regular inspections were understandable, but this was a simple, two-week transport run from Londland to Parance. They’d stopped at the Luxen Band checkpoint not three days ago and passed without incident. The Ba’akre 221B might not be as new or elegant as other ships in the fleet, but She’er made sure it was kept strictly up to code.
“Captain, it isn’t Regulatory.” Second Seat Le’es sounded puzzled. “It’s the IEA. They’re requesting permission to board.”
What could they possibly want? Probably nothing good, and yet She’er’s pulse thrummed with anticipation. Usually, all that came aboard were passengers traveling between the capital world of Londland and the ten planets of the Euroan galaxy.
Of course, She’er had never expected captaining the Ba’akre 221B to be as stimulating a career as the previous—Chief Investigator for the Interplanetary Enforcement Agency. But when tasked with finding a less risky occupation, it had seemed the obvious choice: Translate years spent flying ships, originally a hobby to stave off tedium between cases, into a career. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken long for the monotony to release a familiar and tenacious enemy—boredom.
“Tell the IEA to come alongside,” She’er said. “Lock Three. No word on what they might want?”
“No, Captain.” Le’es studied the communications console. “All they say is that it’s an urgent matter of interplanetary security.”
She’er tried not to reveal untoward excitement. “Very well. I will welcome the enforcers aboard personally. Take the First Seat, Second.”
“Yes, Captain.” Le’es offered the formal salute of crew member to superior officer: fold hands in front of chest and bow. The Second’s head dipped extra low. Rather more dramatic than protocol, She’er noted, but decided not to waste time correcting the minor infraction.
She’er all but jogged through the corridors leading to Lock Three. A few passengers waved—mostly the little ones. She’er managed to smile back, though each child was a painful reminder of hasty words and postponed actions. A parting spousal accusation that this choice of career had turned out to be less about safety and more an excuse to avoid me still stung.
Six members of an IEA detail were waiting with two of the ship’s security team. One of the latter, a Belgean, folded four hands and bowed. “Captain, this is—”
“I know who it is.” She’er was startled enough to almost forget manners entirely. “Wa’ats? What are you doing here?”
An enforcer with gray-blue hair, skin the pale blue of middle age, and the uniform of an IEA chief stepped forward. “Captain,” Chief Wa’ats said. “This Retrieval detail appreciates your cooperation in allowing us to board without appropriate notice.”
Sensing the weight of the crew and enforcers’ stares, She’er sought an appropriate response. “Chief, you and your people are welco
me, of course. Might I inquire as to the reason for this most…unexpected visit?”
The chief’s steady gaze wavered. “It’s a matter of some delicacy, Captain. Can we go somewhere private so we don’t alarm anyone who might see us and make, ah, assumptions?”
“I’ll have refreshments brought to your people in the mess. You and I can retire to my quarters. We can speak freely there.” And you had better make it good!
As if a mind reader—and considering how long they’d known one another, that argument could be made—Wa’ats said, “Thank you, Captain. I’m sure once I’ve explained the situation, you’ll agree our need to interrupt your trip, while unfortunate, is vital.”
She’er escorted the chief to the captain’s quarters in uncomfortable silence. The door hadn’t slid fully shut behind them before She’er demanded, “What by the fangs of the Hound Below are you doing here?
Wa’ats sighed. “I swear this has nothing to do with our disagreement before you left home.”
They kissed. Though it was briefer and more awkward than those exchanged in happier times, it still affected She’er deeply. For a few breaths, everything—this delay likely to result in passenger complaints to the home office, the hurtful words exchanged during their last argument—receded into meaninglessness.
Firmly, if regretfully, She’er broke contact and stepped back. “Then I am eager to hear your explanation for this unheralded visit.”
Wa’ats strode over to the small bar that stood out from the otherwise utilitarian furnishings and poured two fingers of She’er’s best irewhisk. After adding a third finger’s worth, the chief gulped it down.
She’er raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you on duty?” It wasn’t like Wa’ats to take such liberties while on a case.
“Yes, exactly. As in I’m not here as some passive-aggressive gesture or whatever nonsense you’re thinking!” Wa’ats’s hand shot up. “Sorry. I’m more than slightly on edge. For the record, I regret that we didn’t part on better terms.”
“As do I,” She’er said reluctantly. “So, what exactly brings you to my proverbial doorstep?”
“We’ve received intel that you took on a stowaway during your stop at the Luxen Band checkpoint.”
“Impossible! My crew mustered everyone afterward and found no irregularities.”
“Be that as it may, we’re confident that someone onboard isn’t themselves anymore, but rather an escaped criminal.” Wa’ats’s hand shook while setting down the glass.
Drinking. Tremors. That’s more than the usual worry over a case. The fine indigo hairs dotting She’er’s arms prickled. “You don’t mean a Displacer?”
“It’s Mori, She’er,” said Wa’ats, confirming the worst.
“That’s…how?” She’er stumbled backward against a desk, gripped the edges, and maneuvered around to sink into a chair. “Mori was sentenced to execution by The Scoyard’s magisters a year ago!”
Wa’ats came around, knelt with some difficulty, and grasped She’er’s hands. “I’m very sorry, love, but it didn’t happen. Mori’s sentence was delayed due to a jurisdictional challenge by Gerany. Because of the political implications Londland kept the stay of execution under wraps. Meanwhile, Mori remained in prison until about a week ago, when she somehow escaped.”
Pulling free of Wa’ats’s grip, She’er raked fingers through a tangle of curls. “By the Hound’s bloody claws, how utterly incompetent does a prison have to be to let a high-profile criminal just…slip away!”
“Believe me, many heads are set to roll over it, including one belonging to a member of my detail.” Wa’ats stood with a groan. “Competency issues aside, our main concern is recapturing Mori before—”
“The spawning begins.” She’er felt ill.
Mori was a Displacer, a criminal even by the standards of her own people of the outermost Euroan world, Amrigh. The all-female Amrighans were staunch believers that their method of procreation—via parthenogenesis and insertion of a spawn into a host, where it rewrote their DNA—made them an evolutionarily superior race. But the majority confined themselves to only displacing their dying sisters, recycling corpses to house fresh lives.
However, Displacers were rabid xenophobes with a thirst for conquest. They had cropped up throughout Amrighan history, with Mori being one of the most notorious for using procreation as a weapon of conquest. She’d nearly succeeded in displacing key members of Gerany’s parliament before She’er and then-Underchief Wa’ats put a stop to her plot.
“If you’re right, then by the time we reach Parance her spawn will have matured. We’re running at capacity. Even if she only infests a third of the passengers, that’s a couple hundred Displacers of spawning age within days. Set loose on a planet of Parance’s size? They’ll take it over in,” She’er quickly performed the calculations, “three months!”
Wa’ats nodded, grim-faced. “Hence the urgency. We have to find Mori as quickly as possible, not just for the sake of the innocents aboard, but to protect an entire world.”
“You mean galaxy,” muttered She’er. “No way will she be content with anything less. After Parance, it will take no time for her spawn to spread to Belge, and from there on to Gerany, through the Luxen Band, and ultimately home.” Londland, largest of the Euroan planets, would be her final target, but by then it would face an army of unstoppable size.
“We could use your help figuring out who she’s mimicking from among your passengers.” Wa’ats glanced away. “You are the one who tracked her down last time, after all.”
“We did,” said She’er, more as an attempt at being considerate than to correct a misstatement. They both knew who had been principally responsible for deducing Mori’s cover identity as Gerany’s Minister of Infrastructure. Displacers were near-perfect mimics, able to transform themselves into copies of their targets and absorb their memories. There was only one tell—Amrighans didn’t have sweat glands. An arrogant Mori, believing ‘lesser’ beings wouldn’t notice, missed that. One deliberately overheated conference room had been all it took for She’er to blow her cover.
That was when, desperate and cornered, Mori fired an exterminator at She’er. It had only been due to good fortune and Wa’ats’s reflexes that the Hound Below was cheated of a new soul to chase for eternity. Soon after, caught up in having been saved by Wa’ats at the cost of a permanent wound, She’er impulsively proposed they start a family. Considering all Wa’ats had done, not to mention lost earlier in life, it had seemed the least She’er could do.
“…to begin?” Wa’ats was saying.
She’er blinked. “Pardon?”
“Are you even listening to me?” An eye roll. “Of course not, you’re already off in your own mind. Look, I know I said we shouldn’t work together anymore. Nevertheless, since you’re still not a pregnant female—”
“I have every intention of morphing to bear your child.” She’er suppressed a familiar sense of dread. “Soon.”
“Our child, She’er. The whole reason we agreed you should leave the IEA was because you said you wanted to start a family.” Wa’ats made an erasing motion in the air. “My point is, I’m fine with involving you.”
“I’m honored,” said She’er drily.
“Just don’t forget who is in charge of this investigation. These enforcers are my detail. Are we clear?”
She’er bit back multiple retorts. “Certainly, Chief Wa’ats. So long as you remember that as First Seat of this vessel the safety of the passengers and crew are ultimately my responsibility, one I take very seriously. Is that clear?”
Wa’ats frowned, but nodded. “Crystal.”
“Excellent.” A case again, after so long! “Then the game is—”
“Not,” said Wa’ats sternly. “Look, I know you’re itching to get back into action.” The chief tapped She’er’s nose. “It’s written all over your adorably pointy little face. But these stakes go beyond life and death to galactic conquest.”
She’er gripped Wa’ats’s shoulde
rs. “My dear, that’s what makes it worth playing!”
• • •
She’er stalked into the guest quarters. “This had better be worth pulling me away from my investi—I mean, duties.”
“Captain.” Security Crew Ca’ar offered a quick but precise salute, flushed face the cyan of youth. “Apologies, but the chief insisted.”
Wa’ats crouched in the center of the room over a crumpled body. “Enforcer Jon’na is dead, Sh…Captain. I thought you should be informed.”
She’er knelt beside Wa’ats and helped roll the corpse over. Both recoiled from the sight as Ca’ar gagged behind them.
Jon’na’s mouth was agape; teeth, bone, and flesh swirling inward as though being sucked into a black hole. Soon the features would disappear entirely and the body would collapse into moldable but unrecognizable flesh.
She’er combed fingers through hair and slowly rose. “How many crewmembers know about this? Any passengers?”
“None yet, Captain. I was patrolling and heard screams. When I didn’t get a response I used my passbeam to gain access, and then…I found this, and thought.” Crew Ca’ar was trembling. “I went into the hall to hit the alarm, but then I spotted the chief and…I’m sorry if I didn’t—”
“Pull yourself together, Security,” She’er commanded. “You’re a professional. Behave like one!”
Crew Ca’ar snapped to attention. “Apologies, Captain. I hope I responded appropriately to the situation by obeying Chief Wa’ats’s request not to raise a general alarm.”
“Indeed. The last thing we need is ship-wide panic.” Glancing at Wa’ats and receiving unspoken approval, She’er said, “Take the body down to Refuse. Once the chief gives the go-ahead, incinerate it. Contact the Second Seat for instructions on using service corridors and otherwise avoiding drawing attention to this—situation.” She’er added, more gently, “Then go draw yourself a Belge beer. Or three.”
“Yes, Captain.” Ca’ar gave the body another repulsed glance, then began speaking into a standard-issue multicom wristband.
Baker Street Irregulars Page 11
