The Blue King Murders

by Tom Shepherd

  Suzie raised a hand. “I’m getting an emergency transmission from M-double-I headquarters. Arabella says it’s your father on Apexcom.”

  “Tell him to—”

  Tyler never finished the thought. Lovey shrieked in the darkness. It was a scream of pain, not fear.

  Three

  Lovey Frost stumbled from the shadows with a short, steel arrow piercing her right breast. Blood gushed from the wound and soaked the green jumpsuit. A second arrow struck her in the buttocks and another whizzed toward her head, but Lovey’s wobbly gait threw off the assailant’s aim and the deadly shaft missed by a few centimeters, plunking off the bulkhead behind her.

  Tyler sprang from the viewport, grabbed Lovey’s arm, and dragged her into the conversation pit. She lost more blood before Tyler got her below the brick wall, but it couldn’t be helped. Rosalie, J.B. and Demarcus huddled under the metal table in the conversation pit. More arrows zinged toward the humans. Tyler stopped counting after fourteen impacts. Some ricocheted off the table and hard surfaces. Others imbedded in soft spots along the walls and cushions of the conversation pit.

  The two service androids slipped from the shadows and mounted the platform by the viewport alcove. Now they were silhouetted against the starfield and planet. Perfect place for a retaliatory kill shot, if the humans were not aboard a pressurized, orbiting station. Nor could the androids close the gap without losing their strategic advantage of explosive decompression should their prey fire and miss.

  The attackers could fling steel shafts until their stores exhausted, then simply shut down or flee to the access shaft. Sooner or later, if they packed a large quiver, some of the arrows would find the right angle of deflection and strike human flesh. And when arrow stores were nearly exhausted, their remote operators might order a suicide charge. They were robots, expendables.

  A barbed bolt clipped the overhead and veered sharply downward, striking Suzie at the thigh. But she had energized her bio-energetic matrix, becoming more energy than matter. A ghost-figure, she perceived the outer world but physical attack left her unscathed.

  “Get help!” Tyler bellowed. Suzie disappeared.

  “Demarcus, give me a blaster,” Rosalie said coolly.

  “No!” J.B. said. “Hit that viewport, you kill us all.”

  Ignoring J.B.’s order, Platte slid both weapons under the table to Rosalie. He was Chief of Security, but she was the dispatcher. Like a dancer executing one smooth motion, she rolled away from the table, raised both blasters, and fired four shots. Two rounds apiece smashed into each android’s head and torso. They froze and toppled to the deck. Not a shard of metal nor wisp of blast energy touched the pressurized viewport.

  Demarcus whistled. “Damn, lady. You really are Night Storm.”

  Lovey Frost was unconscious and bleeding badly. J.B. found a stack of towels in the dark kitchen and handed them to his brother, who applied direct pressure around the shaft of the arrow.

  Suzie rematerialized. “Emergency medical personnel and Station Police are on their way.”

  “I’ll direct them to this cabin.” Demarcus disappeared out the sliding hatch and returned shortly with a swarm of blue medics and armed constabularies. EMTs quickly stabilized Counselor Frost while Station Police sealed the access shaft where killer robots had emerged.

  One of the EMTs spoke to Platte in Pharmaadoodil. Rosalie translated. “We put her in mobility stasis. May we now please transport Counselor Frost to the medical center for complete healing, if that is acceptable?”

  “Of course.” Star Lawyers’ Chief of Security looked to Tyler. “Mind if I ride along, Boss?”

  Tyler nodded. “Lovey needs protection. We’re okay here.” He wanted to add, “And call me Tyler, damnit!” but this wasn’t the right time.

  Platte turned to Rosalie. “Keep the weapons, ma’am.”

  “What weapons?” She smiled, shaking an ankle.

  The EMTs carried Lovey Frost from her arrow-studded cabin. Tyler and J.B. lingered to answer questions from Station Police with Rosalie translating Terran to Pharmaadoodil, both directions.

  A few minutes later a pair of Quirt civilians in black suits arrived and swept the room with handheld devices. Apparently satisfied, they stood by the hatch while a small entourage of officials swarmed Lovey’s quarters, followed by an older, heavier Quirt-Thymean in dark green robes. From the way the others deferred to this last arrival, he had to be a senior government official or a member of the nobility, or both.

  “Tyler Matthews and J.B. Matthews and Rosalie Matthews?” the green-robed superior said in Terran.

  “Guilty as charged,” Tyler said.

  He bowed slightly. “I am Grand Duke Nuuria-Katikoo Glennka-Maakoolok, Assistant Chief Diplomatic Officer for Alien Legal Affairs of the Quirt-Thyme Empire.”

  “Are you here to kill us, too?”

  “No, no, no! I am here to apologize in the name of the Emperor—whoever he will be, after we execute Prince Zenna-Zenn for regicide. We are appalled by the great offense perpetrated upon your family on the eve of Toorlazimbaa.”

  “Which offense?” Tyler said. “I can think of half a dozen.”

  “Why, lunch displacement, of course.” The Grand Duke’s face went blank, as though he never considered any other possibility. “You have been forced to miss your midday meal, correct?”

  J.B. and Tyler exchanged you-gotta-be-shitting-me looks, but Rosalie stepped into the conversation gap before Tyler followed up with a zinger.

  “We have forgone First Lunch,” she replied in Terran. “But we heartily dismiss any sentiments of rancor toward the great and generous Quirt-Thyme Empire, in full expectation of plenary restoration of caloric intake during the remaining three meals of the day.”

  Tyler bit his upper lip. “Right. What she said. Bring on the grub at suppertime.”

  Smiling sweetly, Rosalie switched to Spanish. “Hermano, shut up, por favor. They don’t eat supper. The next meals are Second Lunch, First Dinner, and Second Dinner. They often serve bedtime snacks, too. You will be expected to eat a little each time.”

  Tyler sighed. “Madre de Dios. Lovey Frost is carried from the cabin, trailing blood from arrows stuck in her body. And he’s worried about skipping meals?”

  “Let me do the talking, Ty.” She engaged the official in Pharmaadoodil with the brief Ritual of Appreciation. “Are you well and satisfied?”

  “Oh, yes,´ Nuuria-Katikoo said. “My stomach rests easy. You bless me by inquiring after my nutritional needs.” He waved a hand and the diplomatic entourage bowed and single-filed from Lovey’s quarters.

  “Is there more?” Tyler said.

  “Yes, yes,” Nuuria-Katikoo said. “My government has granted me the privilege of guiding your efforts as the famous Star Lawyers legal firm prepares to defend the traitor who killed our High King.”

  “And if we fail, I get executed?” Tyler said.

  “Put to death for defending a regicide?” The Grand Duke said ruefully, “Certainly. Most certainly.”

  “I didn’t get that memo until today.”

  “Ah, but there is good news!” Nuuria-Katikoo chirped.

  Tyler frowned. “I can’t wait.”

  “The death penalty applies only if you set foot on our homeworld. Conduct your defense from the Orbital Hub, and you cannot be arrested or executed. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “I am ecstatic with joy.” Tyler plucked a metal arrow from the sofa and waved it like a professor with a pointer. “So, tell me—how do I investigate a murder from geosynchronous orbit of the crime scene?”

  “Send your subordinates to gather facts. If they are caught, the offense is much, much lighter. Only a few decades in a penal colony.”

  “What about whoever defends Mr. Blue in court?” J.B. said. “Wouldn’t they be subject to the same death penalty?”

  “You can appear holographically,” Nuuria-Katikoo explained. “It is a simple process these days.”

  “I don’t like this setup.” Tyler
wagged the arrow in the Grand Duke’s face. “Somebody on this Station is trying to kill us, and you want Star Lawyers to stay here, because you will kill us if we go down to the planet?”

  “Or imprison your operatives, yes. A magnificent compromise.”

  Rosalie stepped between them and snatched Tyler’s arrow. “Can we be of further service to you, Grand Duke?”

  “Why…no, I think we have communicated adequately. All our Station facilities are at your disposal. Do you have any further needs?”

  “Fix my ship,” Tyler demanded. “And considering your forces opened fire on us without provocation, I want the Patrick Henry moved to the head of the line.”

  “Tyler, diplomacy?” Suzie said cheerfully.

  “Fuck diplomacy.”

  “Tyler!” She grasped his arm.

  “Somebody tried to kill us. Twice. Once in space, once on this Station, and we haven’t been here a whole day. I want my FTL and sublight engines working in case we need to run for our lives.”

  Nuuria-Katikoo smiled. “Now, Mr. Matthews, there is no need to exaggerate. We shall make every effort—”

  “You know what, Mr. Nuuria-Katikoo? My brother is right.” Rosalie’s eyes fixed on the ambassador, and she went from grazing doe to stalking predator. She switched to Pharmaadoodil. “Fuck diplomacy. Fix the god-damned ship.”

  Nuuria-Katikoo’s eyes swelled into a frog stare. “Be patient, my Terran friends. This Station requires each ship in our repair bays to wait their assigned turn.”

  J.B. sighed. “Do you want us to report to our father, Tyler Noah Matthews III, that the Quirt-Thyme government—you in particular—refused to offer priority support?”

  “But—”

  “Tut-tut-tut, Mr. Ambassador.” Rosalie winced. “You do not want to make my daddy mad.”

  Tyler said, “And while your people are crawling all over the Patrick Henry, tell them Lieutenant Rooney and Chief León will certify every replaced or repaired component before the job is complete.”

  “That is quite unnecessary. Our crews—”

  “There you go again, quibbling.” Rosalie sighed. “Tyler, don’t we have an Apexcom pending from M-double-I?”

  “Yeah. Dad probably wants an update.” Tyler steepled his fingers, flipped his hands over, and stretched them over his head. “You think The Old Man has decided to collect on that I.O.U. from the Parves yet?”

  “I’d forgotten,” Rosalie said. “The Parvian Republic did promise to surface-blast any rogue planet of Daddy’s choosing.”

  The Grand Duke flapped his blue hands, palms up. “Gentlebeings, let us comport ourselves as reasonable representatives of our species. I shall speak to the Director of Maintenance. Is there anything else?”

  “Armed guards at the ship and outside Lovey Frost’s hospital room,” Tyler said. “Your best people. Not sluggards who need busywork.”

  J.B. said, “Did you get all that, or shall we send you a memo?”

  “No, no. I understand your requests.” Nuuria-Katikoo smoothed the wrinkles in his robe and turned to Tyler. “Mr. Matthews, I hope this does not mean you doubt the quality of our work or your safety aboard this Imperial Hub.”

  Tyler took the arrow from his sister and handed it to the Quirt-Thymean diplomat. “Why would I doubt that?”

  “Perhaps you will accept an act of reconciliation,” Grand Duke suggested. “Let me provide an emergency Mid-Lunch, compensation for you missed meal.”

  Tyler sighed. “Again with the food.”

  J.B. said, “I question the wisdom of exposing ourselves to more danger by attending a public function.”

  “No, no. I assure you greatly. There is no danger.” Nuuria-Katikoo slipped the hand holding the arrow behind his back.

  “Oh, there’s plenty of danger,” Tyler said. “Whoever was behind the robotic attack is strongly suggesting we shouldn’t defend Mr. Blue. Well, I will not leave, or hide aboard the Patrick Henry. Why don’t you escort Rosalie and Suzie back to—”

  “Bugger that,” Suzie said.

  Rosalie agreed. “Let’s show those pendejos the Matthews Family doesn’t scare easily.”

  J.B. shrugged. “Let’s do lunch.”

  “Demarcus will have a nervous breakdown,” Tyler said.

  

  Nuuria-Katikoo’s assistants took them by hovercar to the Station Commander’s Mess, where blue stewards in white, toga-like robes lined the entranceway and cheered the Terrans as if they were Caesar’s legions entering Rome.

  “Why did I agree to this?” Tyler grumbled.

  J.B. shrugged. “Testosterone explosion. Short-circuited your brain.”

  Androids served the tables, which triggered yellow-alert in Tyler’s mind. He watched for signs of malfunction or malevolence but saw nothing suspicious.

  The food was unrecognizable but edible, especially the roasted meat and green vegetables. Tyler did not ask what creature provided the savory cutlets, but from the flaky texture and delicate, salty flavor he suspected it was not a mammal.

  Desserts with warm fruit pastries and cold pudding followed, and three more courses. Warm soup, soft golden triangles—Tyler suspected cheese, but who knows?—and boiled, spicy roots. Finally, the Chief Steward himself poured cups of a golden beverage that tasted like beer spiked with smoky distilled spirits. Androids distributed discs of crunchy bread and vegetable sticks to accompany the drink, which Tyler found a tasty combination. He kept a watchful eye on the robots.

  The plates and bowls disappeared by the quick hands of mechanical servers. Tyler rose from his place to discover a smiling blue alien in a beige kaftan standing behind him. The Azule held a deadly-looking blast rifle crossways to his torso, like the Terran military port arms position. Rosalie bent to her ankle but Tyler waved her off before Baby Sis engaged the target.

  “Hey, man. Are you, like, Tyler Matthews Ivey?” the Quirt-Thymean said in rather good Terran.

  “Ivey?” Tyler said.

  “The fourth in Latin,” J.B. said.

  “Oh.” Tyler turned to the armed Quirt-Thymean. “Are you planning to shoot him?”

  “Naw, man!”

  “Then I’m Tyler Matthews.”

  “Far out! Dude, you are a lot younger than I expected.”

  “And you are…?”

  “Erkinood Atbarasoo. But I go by my Terran name. ‘Pinball Wizard-Private Ear-Gummy Shoes.’ But y’all can call me Sasquatch, because I’ll guide your ass like Lois and Clark.”

  J.B. laughed. “Did you mean Sacajawea?”

  His smile faded into confusion. “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Rosalie chuckled. “Sash, honey, where did you learn to speak such… interesting Terran?”

  “My man, Zenna-Zenn, and me studied together. Then homeboy effed-up an’ got accused of murdering the effin’ King. Had to continue my ed-u-ma-kay-shun alone. Bought a lot of old Terran movies from traders. Read a ton of your classic literature. Paper picture stories and detection books. Mickey the Rat, Betty and Vendetta, Super Amazon Woman, Hercules Maple, Perry Manson, Conan the Barber. And I listened to lotsa Wop music an’ country stoners. Know what I’m saying, man?”

  Rosalie flashed a smile. “I’m a woman. But I catch your drift, man.”

  “Oh, horse-feathers, Babycakes! I fergot the shootin’ iron.” He handed the rifle blaster to Tyler.

  “I don’t recognize this configuration,” Tyler said. “Thermal?”

  “Composite. Thermal-kinetic.” Rosalie took the weapon, spinning it for a quick look. “I’m guessing Meklavite design.”

  “Yeah!” Sash clapped blue hands. “Give the lady a cee-gar.”

  Rosalie’s mouth dropped open. “Omigod, this thing is loaded!”

  She broke down its firing mechanism and plucked the ammunition. Glossy, hard balls, about the size of a big marble, circled by a metallic ridge to slot the round in place.

  “It’s a Mek 47.5-SC.“ Rosalie said. “Do you have any idea how powerful this rifle blaster is?”<
br />
  “Damn straight.” The young QT grinned, white teeth glowing in a blue face. “Mess somebody up hella bad.”

  Tyler cleared his throat. “Thanks for the wicked present, but—”

  “Ain’t no present, Tyler Matthews Ivey. That be the murder weapon.”

  “The murder—how did you acquire this?” J.B. said.

  “I boosted it from the Prosecutor, dawg! You don’t think he’d let me walk away with a gnarly clue like this, do you?”

  Oh, shit. Here we go again. Tyler put his head in his hands. Suzie rubbed his shoulders affectionately.

  “That is very…uh… bold,” J.B. said. “Why are you doing this?”

  He beamed. “Because until the trial is over, I am with you, Star Lawyers, like stink on a sheet.”

  “You mean, ink on a page?” Suzie said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Jotted, slotted, my course plotted.”

  “I never thought I’d miss Mr. Blue’s malapropisms,” Tyler said.

  “And because my homie Zenna-Zenn sent me,” Sash added, “I’m your guide to the crime.”

  Tyler and J.B. exchanged a series of nonverbals—shrug, head shake, hands spread wide—ending with a nod from Tyler.

  “Okay, Sash,” Tyler said. “We need a good briefing on the murder, and somebody took Counselor Frost out of the game. You’re coming back to the Patrick Henry with us.”

  “That’s okey-dokey to this folkie.” He licked blue lips with a green tongue. “Do you have any beans aboard the P.H.? I’ve always wanted to be full of beans.”

  Leaning to J.B., Tyler said in Spanish, “I may shoot him myself.”

  Tyler sent Suzie to find Demarcus and get a report on Lovey’s condition while the Matthews siblings and their new volunteer, Erkinood Atbarasoo, a.k.a., Sash, returned to the Henry by floater car.

  Four

  Suzie computer-jumped to the medical wing, materializing in a commons area outside the emergency deck. For all its technology, the QT hospital had a chaotic system of tracking new patients. Suzie had to search for Lovey, ward by ward. She found Demarcus pacing the waiting room outside a surgical suite. Behind him another floor-to-ceiling viewport offered a grand view of the gleaming adjacent segment of the four-quad Station.