The Blue King Murders

by Tom Shepherd

  Bouché leaned forward. “You see, J.B.? That’s what I mean. Most vendors are non-Meklavite, but who knows that? Terrible lack of advanced publicity.”

  “Tell me more.” For starters, what products are they selling on a pleasure moon at the far end of the Carina Arm that might attract alien vendors and shoppers from across the galaxy? And arresting Charlie to keep him off-site, creating a complex narrative of sedition by prostitution in support of a marketing strategy? That’s a little far-fetched.

  “For example, along with a whole new class of high-impact weaponry for ship-mounted turrets, the Dengathi Stellar Lagoon, whom I represent, will offer breakthrough tech in target acquisition and anti-ECM capabilities. Did the Meks publicize that? Hell, no.”

  J.B.’s head was reeling. Weapons and combat systems? Why had T’paeken Heirzos failed to mention a recurring exhibition of military technology hosted by Lerrotica? He runs the damned moon! Furthermore, did Father know about this Tradeshow before sending us here? How about Uncle Charlie? Was anybody telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the god-damned truth?

  “You’re Mindorian, am I right?” J.B. said. “Why are you pitching Frog technology?”

  “Frogs—that’s a pejorative moniker I try to discourage. However, J.B., you ask a good question. I sell state-of-the-art products only. The Dengathi are pioneers in weaponry and defensive systems.”

  “Really?” J.B. cursed himself for infusing his come-back with sarcasm. But—Really? The Frogs weren’t known for scientific breakthroughs. Backroom deals, stolen technology, and the occasional act of piracy, yes. But they had no track record of technological innovation like Bouché was describing.

  “Really!” The Mindorian salesman missed J.B.’s cynical tone. “And they have no qualms about doing business with anyone.”

  “That’s convenient for someone in your profession.” Damnit! I did it again. Keep cool. This guy has information I need.

  “Open marketing plan, reasonable prices, outstanding quality.” Bouché smiled, and actually managed to look modest. “I guess they asked me to spearhead their off-worlder marketing because I share their business philosophy.”

  Right. And you can peddle implements of destruction to fellow warm-blooded humanoids a lot better than tech-stealing, ectothermic amphibians.

  “When I heard you’d come to the Farroleok system to defend your uncle, I thought to myself, ‘The Matthews-Solorio conglomerate fields the most powerful independent fleet in known space. They’ll want the best merchandise for the best price.’ Am I right, J.B.?”

  He nodded slowly. “My father attempts to keep our assets current.”

  “Wise policy.” The Mindorian’s lip twitched slightly. “You know, J.B., I’ve been coming to the Lerrotica Tradeshow over a decade. Don’t recall seeing M-double-I attendees before this year.”

  “I told you, my task on F-7 is to defend my uncle in court.”

  Bouché smiled. “Yes, of course. But your agent is free to roam the exhibits, no?”

  “We had no need to shop here in previous years. Lerrotica is a long way from Terra, and we have our own R&D division.”

  “Nobody can keep abreast of the fast-moving improvements in defense technologies by themselves. You’ll be glad you made the trip.”

  “What if we decide to buy for resale? Do you have access to large quantities of weapons and supportive modules? Will you sell us all rights to production and provide design tech?”

  Montejo Bouché smiled. “Oh, yes. If Matthews Corp is shopping for resale bargains, the Stellar Lagoon guarantees you will realize four hundred percent over factory, or the Dengathi will compensate you for the shortfall. And we can sell all rights to future production as part of the package.”

  “Remarkably self-confident marketing plan,” J.B. said.

  The Mindorian arms merchant nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. With our discount packages, you can offer customers a fifty percent markdown and still pocket twice your cost.”

  “When do I see the merchandise?”

  “How about tomorrow, first day of the Tradeshow? Unless you’d rather wait until your competitors have picked over the displays.”

  “Give my receptionist the location of your Dengathi exhibition.”

  “I’ll do that,” Bouché said. “But the M-double-I purchasing agent already knows. She watched my crew set up the booth earlier today.”

  What purchasing agent? Friend or foe? He stood and Bouché took the hint. “I’ll see you on Lerrotica.” J.B. said.

  They shook hands and the meeting was over.

  After waiting long enough for Bouché to provide the location of the Dengathi booth on Lerrotica, J.B. stuck his head out the office and shouted, “Ulrika, find Uncle Charlie. Tell him to get his ass up here!”

  “Yes, sir. May I modify the message slightly?”

  “Just get him here!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And tell Suzie I need her.”

  “Do you need anything else, something to eat or—”

  “Get my Uncle Charlie—I’ll eat him!”

  “Yes, sir.” She disappeared, computer-hopping to her work station.

  J.B. sifted the clues while waiting. It’s all tied together in some misty way, like morning in the Ozarks. The Quirts who want to go back to wars of conquest. The murder of two Blue Kings. The annual Weapons Tradeshow on Lerrotica, with its parade of high tech tools of destruction. The ability of Charlie’s women to pick up secrets from pillow-talking Meklavite men who are married to powerful women of their matriarchal society. I can feel the long arm of my father, operating his moonshine still, boiling the mash and distilling his version of Missouri white lightning, a secret recipe for money-making and interstellar politics.

  And once again The Old Man sent us into this mess—Tyler at Annistyn, me at F-7—without access to his scheme. There is no way a man with his galaxy-wide network of intelligence agents did not know about the Lerrotica Weapons Tradeshow. But Bouché said no M-double-I representatives in previous years. So, who is this purchasing agent casing the show for Matthews-Solorio?

  Thanks again, Dad. I’m developing a new appreciation for regicides.

  He sat back, cradled his head in a nest of fingers, and considered swallowing another shot of Tongue-Ripper.

  Fifteen

  Six Years Earlier

  Wednesday, 10 June 3098

  Matthews Interstellar Industries Corporate Headquarters

  The P.T. – “Penthouse at the Top”

  Grand Avenue Plaza, Kansas City, Missouri

  Terran Commonwealth Homeworld

  Charles Francis Matthews poured himself a soft drink at the cocktail bar behind his brother’s white cube desk in the M-double-I’s CEO’s sprawling office. A glossy, Tleone stone-oak conference table—which comfortably sat fifty humans or a dozen elephantine Tleone—occupied half the office space but sat empty today.

  Beyond the cinnamon-marbled table, the CEO’s high quality exercise modules also lacked attention. Charlie turned to the wall-high series of screens and instrument panels, checked the headlines and markets, then wandered to the forcefield viewport overlooking vast green belts among steel-and-crystal towers of Kansas City. In the distance the wide, muddy Missouri River floated barge traffic up-and-downriver in carefully marked commercial lanes, and pleasure boats, some with multi-colored sails, cruised around the river traffic on a lazy spring afternoon.

  Charlie sipped his drink and waited. Soon a door hissed behind him. Footsteps approached. It was time.

  “This meeting never happened.” A datacom or something like it clattered on the white cube desktop. “Anybody recognize you?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Noah. How long has it been—ten years? How’s the Family?”

  “Bianca is training flight crews at Violet’s Starship Academy on Emily’s World. Tyler is a senior at Mizzou Law School, Rosalie attends an advanced placement institute on Mindorius, and J.B. is out of the building today. I assume you took the executi
ve lift as requested?”

  “You’ve always been a sneaky devil,” Charlie said. “Dad never understood why you insisted on working as a field agent in the intel department instead of managing the corporate empire from Kansas City.”

  “Planning ahead. Today, I’ve got a network of agents reporting home from everywhere.”

  “Well, I guess it paid other dividends. You never would’ve married Bianca if you’d stayed at KCMO.”

  “Let’s get off Memory Lane and back to the task at hand.” Noah poured himself a tall glass of ice water.

  “Lead on, O King Eternal.”

  Noah frowned. “I have a job for you. An important job. Some danger, but nothing you can’t handle. It pays well.”

  Charlie chose a black leatherette chair at the Tleone conference table and put his feet on the stone-oak tabletop. “Comfortable seats. I commend your purchasing agents.”

  “Charlie—”

  “I don’t want to work for you, Noah. In fact, I don’t want anything from you, period. I don’t need the Family money. I’m doing fine.”

  Noah smirked. “Running an escort service on a female-dominated Mek colony world?”

  “A dating service.” Charlie corrected.

  “How much did you clear last fiscal year?”

  “Enough. Did Bianca put you up to this?”

  “She doesn’t know you’re here.”

  “So, the bullshit comes directly from my elder sibling?”

  Noah raised a hand. “Charlie, hear me out. For Dad’s sake.”

  Charlie’s head jerked to his brother’s eyes. “Don’t go there, Noah.”

  Invoking their father—who died trying to stop a border war between minor trading partners of Matthews-Solorio Enterprises—was a new low, even for T. Noah Matthews III.

  Noah folded his arms. “You’ll see why I mentioned Dad when you hear the situation.”

  Charlie nodded. “All right. You have my attention. Make it quick. The Platte City Casino has free barbecue tonight.”

  “Must you trivialize everything?”

  “Yes.” He sipped the soft drink. “I’m waiting. So, talk.”

  “You know about the Lerrotica Tradeshow?”

  “Guns-for-Fun? I know all about it. Colonial Meks have sponsored that kill festival several years now. R&D facilities all over Lerrotica churn out new prototype weapons systems and sell them to alien bidders. Mostly junk. But there are plenty of vendors from other races who hawk guns, missiles, and defense modules. Some of their stuff is okay. Not up to M-double-I standards, but—”

  “Did you know the Mek colonists are running those Tradeshows mainly to help a faction within the Quirt Thyme Empire secretly buy weapons and military technology?”

  “Why would they do that?” Charlie got up and poured himself a second drink, a cola with caffeine. “Meks and Quirts operate on different sides of the galaxy Do they even have diplomatic relations?”

  “Just listen,” Noah said. “Mek colonists agreed to the deal because the Quirts promised to support F-7’s bid to secede from the Meklavite Union and to provide mercenaries to train the colonial forces.”

  “That won’t work. The colony doesn’t have the womanpower, and they’ve emasculated their men.”

  Noah smiled. “The Quirts don’t care. My sources say, once Quirt rebels overthrow the government on Annistyn and return to the old imperial order, they’ll likely abandon the Mek colony.”

  “How real is the threat of Quirt empire-building again?”

  “Very real. High King Bandu-Jeewan has pulled together enough big players to seize the Parliament and end their hybrid of democracy and monarchy. The expansion phase begins as soon as they amass enough weapons and fighting ships.”

  Charlie set down his glass. “Jesus H. Christ. If the Quirts revert to conquistador mode, their frontier faces colony worlds of the Parvian Republic. Does that dumbass High King realize what he’s doing?”

  “He thinks he can win.”

  “He’ll get clobbered,” Charlie said. “And if the Parves decide to revert to their expansionist past, five centuries of galactic peace will be shit-canned.”

  “You see the problem? It’s bad for business.”

  Charlie snorted. “Always the humanitarian.”

  “A pragmatist. A war between two major spacefaring civilizations will crash the economies of hundreds, maybe thousands of star nations. For a long time.”

  “Have you heard anything from Dennis?” Charlie said. “His department at Commonwealth HQ might have something to contribute.”

  “Our little brother is a hamster running a government wheel. I wouldn’t trust any intel he supplies. Besides, his specialty is interspecies legal systems, not espionage.”

  Charlie sighed. “Okay, tell me what you want me to do, so I can say ‘No’ and get to barbecue night at the casino.”

  “I need you to scuttle the Quirt’s plan by providing funds to agents from minor star nations and their colonies.”

  “More spies?” Charlie said.

  “Purchasing agents, who will buy up the most dangerous items. I will supply the money. Enough galactic credits to purchase key weapons systems and ship design schematics.”

  “You’re going to burn the Family fortune to stop a war? Amazingly noble of you, Brother.”

  “I’m not that stupid. M-double-I can quietly retail the products to small, wealthy civilizations far away from the Quirt-Thyme Empire. It’s a big galaxy. We’ll spread out the military hardware among species who have no real territorial ambitions and plenty of room between them.”

  Charlie guffawed. “De-centralize the lethality, still make a profit.”

  Noah shrugged. “The real money is in asteroid mining. But if war breaks out, we’ll lose most of our shipments before they reach regional markets. Peace-keeping is our best investment.”

  “I keep the dating business,” Charlie said. “It’s a public service, too.”

  “That’s fine. You need a cover story. Don’t run afoul of Mek laws.” Noah eyed him coolly. “I want a direct answer. Are you in or out?”

  “Yeah, sounds like fun. I’ll help you save the galaxy.” He offered a hand. “For Dad.”

  Noah shook it. “For Dad.”

  “Now, before I head for the casino and some good Missouri barbecue, let’s talk about my commission.”

  “We’ll talk on the way to Platte City. You’re not the only one who enjoys gambling and free food.” Noah touched a button and ordered his skimmer readied on the rooftop pad.

  “Like the old days in the colony worlds.” Charlie laughed. “If you start any fights, you’re on your own.”

  “Don’t worry. My bodyguards will save your sorry ass.”

  

  28 April 3104

  Farroleok-7

  Meklavite Union Colonial World

  Bekka-Capella Spaceport-04

  C. C. Wollongong

  Command Bridge

  “Captain Silas, do you mind if I tap into the ship’s Apexcom to contact Kansas City?” Charlie Matthews waved his hand-held datacom.

  Lieutenant Commander Jon Silas, the Matthews Company Cargo Carrier skipper, was a descendent of Australian Bushmen. Dark hair, yellow-brown skin and medium height, Silas had a disarmingly friendly smile and moved with smooth, graceful strides. Charlie knew him from the multiple trips the Wollongong had made over the past six years to Farroleok system in support of alien purchasing agents, who were recruited by the Matthews Family to buy off the most lethal weaponry offered each year at the Lerrotica Tradeshow.

  The huge Cargo Carrier swallowed weapons, ships, and tech equipment like Pinocchio’s whale. Four other vessels of equal capacity—the C.C. Bogotá, Jakarta, Sao Paulo, and Shenzhen—stood by within a half-day’s flight from Lerrotica if the purchases filled the Wollongong to capacity. Although named after Terran cities, all five ships carried registry of small, unaligned star nations from systems widespread across the 300-billion stars of the Milky Way.
>
  “The bridge is vacant, Mr. Matthews. Do you need anything else?”

  “Thank you, Captain. Just a secure space to transmit via Apexcom.”

  “I will leave you to your duties while I tend to mine.” Silas saluted courteously and closed the bridge hatch behind him.

  It took a surprisingly short period of time to link the hand-held datacom with a Wollongong power source capable of energizing the small unit and opening a window into the anti-matter cosmos, which existed above the dimension occupied by this universe. Once the signal penetrated the higher dimension, it could emerge anywhere instantly, making real-time communication possible across unimaginable distances. Theoretically, an Apexcom signal could link conversations and holographic visuals between galaxies millions of light years distant, but M-double-I scientists had not yet perfected the exit point technology required for intergalactic communication.

  The hand-held model, based on a standard datacom unit, was M-double-I’s latest breakthrough. There were only four prototypes in field trials. Charlie held one of them in his hands. To be certain his call went through, he piggy-backed the signal onto the Wollongong’s full-sized Apexcom unit and specified voice-only. Charlie adjusted the settings and punched OPEN. The cross-galaxy connection occurred instantly.

  “You have reached the Matthews Interstellar Industries, Corporate Headquarters. What may I do for you?”

  Nicolette Cloutier, Noah Matthews’ executive secretary, had a French accent so sensual that men felt like they should run to the confessional just for talking with her, even if they weren’t Catholic. Charlie sighed. Too bad she was sixty-two with a porcine figure and frumpy as your Great Aunt Matilda. Nice lady, though.

  “Nicolette, mon chéri, this is Charles Francis Matthews. May I speak with my brother, s’il vous plaît?”

  “But of course, Monsieur Charles! Please to wait, yes?”

  The line went to flaccid music, and Charlie wished she had kept talking in that sexy voice. He’d provide the mental images. A moment later the connection opened again.