by Tom Shepherd
Chief Prosecutor Yerzail loudly protested Tyler’s witness pick, even before the surprised Judge agreed to hear the argument in chambers.
“Your Honor, this is outrageous!” Yerzail wailed. “You’ve already ruled the Queen’s testimony has concluded. Defense counsel is attempting to circumvent your lawful authority to—”
“I know, Yerzail,” the Judge said. “And he has succeeded. I cannot refuse the defendant’s right to call witnesses chosen by his counsel.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Tyler said.
“However…”
Oh, shit, here it comes.
The Judge summoned a court attendant. Tyler expected the junior jurist to take official notes, but Felizool stood motionless while the young Quirt brushed his dark blue robe. The valet carefully avoided snagging the Imperial Adjudicator’s gold embroidery.
“However, Mr. Matthews,” the Judge continued with one eye on the brush and the other on Tyler, “if you abuse our Empress-Designate or cause her further emotional distress, I will visit upon you the most hardy punishment available from the weapons in my judicial armory. Do you understand?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
A gasp swept through chambers. Lovey grabbed his arm, but Tyler shook free. He waited, with the barest hint of defiance in his eyes. Keep inside the cool line, or this purple people eater will have you for Second Lunch.
“What did you not understand, young Terran?”
“Your instructions were forceful, but far too broad for a legal standard. How do I know what questions will cause a sentient being from another culture to react with emotion? I am neither an emote-reader nor exo-psychologist. I request that you clarify the guidance.”
“Your Honor, really!” Yerzail groaned.
“We have the right to clear standards of evidence,” Mr. Blue said, then translated his comment to Tyler.
“Thanks, Indigo, but shut up. I’m doing the talking. Old adage—fool for a lawyer.”
“Yes, Tyler Matthews. No self-representation.”
“Do you want to let us know what you are chattering about?” Judge Felizool said to Mr. Blue as the valet continued to brush his judicial robe.
“No, my Lord,” Zenna replied. “Attorney-client privilege.”
Felizool managed a half-smile. “Well, I confess, you are a bold lot of rascals. Let me specify this court’s limits when cross-examining a Queen.”
“That will be very helpful, Your Honor,” Tyler said.
Felizool chased off the fluttering valet. “Courtesy, respect, no accusations of guilt. Nothing salacious for shock-value. No questions about her private sexual life, except to clarify testimony given by the Queen herself. Ask nothing which brings scandal upon the Imperial household. I will shut your inquiry down if you violate those standards. Is that clear enough?”
Tyler waited for Indigo’s translation into Terran, then said, “Still a bit vague, Your Honor. But if you will allow me the occasional alien’s miscomprehension, I can work within your guidelines.”
“That is a fair request, provided you do not ride the ignorance skimmer too far from home.”
Tyler grinned. “My father accuses me of that all the time, sir. I’ll try to behave.”
“Then we’re back to the courtroom. I want direct examination of the Queen concluded in time for a nice, leisurely Second Lunch. I suspect your inquiries will so attenuate our people’s energy they will need sustenance badly.”
Tyler waited by the defense table while Veraposta chose a spot to the left of the bench, the raised desk where judges preside. Good angle for the holographic cameras, Tyler noticed. I still don’t know if she’s friend or foe. Well, what the hell, they’re going to execute me if I lose this case. I may as well go down with weapons blasting.
“Your Royal Highness—excuse me a moment.” Tyler stepped toward the bench. “Judge, this witness speaks my native language fluently. Would it be okay if I questioned her in Terran and your folks could render our conversation in Pharmaadoodil for the Court and spectators?”
Felizool nodded. “Chief Prosecutor?”
“The Empire has no objections. I speak Terran, and the court interpreters are quite proficient.”
“Carry on in Terran, Mr. Matthews.” The Judge removed his translator patch from behind a floppy ear, checked the mechanism, and returned it.
“Thanks, Your Honor.” He approached the Queen but stopped a few paces away. Just close enough to tempt the photographers to include both Tyler and Veraposta in the same hologram. “Now, Your Royal Highness, do you remember the conversation we had in your private skiff on the first night of Toorlabamba?”
Her nose wrinkled. It was a sexy look. “You mean Toorlazimbaa?”
“Yeah, yeah. Do you remember our conversation that night?”
“Of course. I came to the Orbital Hub to ask you how your defense of my Third Husband, Prince Zenna-Zenn, was progressing.”
“Did you?” Tyler smirked. “If Emperor Bandu-Jeewan was your true love, why should you care about my defense of his alleged killer?”
“I am a compassionate woman. Zenna and I shared many happy moments. I wanted to know if he had competent legal representation.”
“You called Prince Zenna your Gookie-Poo, correct?”
“It’s a generic term of affection, like your word Honey.”
“So, you have no memory of my first question that night?”
Veraposta cringed, then opened her arms to the courtroom. “I was desperate for justice. Mr. Matthews said he could guarantee a vigorous defense of my Third Husband, so to seal his pledge I offered myself to this human in the Toorlazimbaa ritual of Momentary Fidelity.”
Tyler turned sharply to the Judge. “Your honor, I didn’t ask for sexual favors, which she did, in fact, offer. She indicated she was seriously horny and wanted to get it on. I refused.”
The Judge leaned forward. “Mr. Mathews, I warned you.”
“She brought it up, not me! Sex was her idea.”
“And you rejected coitus with Her Royal Highness on the first night of Toorlazimbaa?” the Judge asked incredulously.
Tyler crossed his arms proudly. “You bet I did.”
The gallery exploded with outrage. Tyler looked helplessly to the Judge for clarification. “It was her idea!”
Felizool shook his head grimly. “Do you realize the grave insult you hurled at the High Queen, the Imperial Family, and the Quirt-Thyme people at large?”
“Uh…apparently not.” Tyler sat on the edge of the defense table. “I’m Catholic. When we screw around, we’re supposed to feel guilty the next morning.”
“How strange,” the Judge mused. “In our religion, to accept an offer of sex on Toorlazimbaa is an act of worship.”
Lovey Frost muttered, “They’re not Baptists, either.”
“So, let me see if I get this.” Tyler slid off the defense table and slowly approached the bench. “If I accept her offer, I am exploiting her vulnerability, trading vigorous sex for vigorous defense of her Gookie-Poo. If I reject her menu of delights, I am insulting the Empire and defiling Toorlabamba.”
“Precisely,” the Judge said.
So, either way, I’m screwed. Just when I’d begun to think I was understanding this whacky culture, the trial becomes a Shakespearean comedy.
“I’m sure the Queen would like this inquisition completed,” the Chief Prosecutor said. “Are you through with the witness, Mr. Matthews?”
“Not even close.” Tyler spun around to Veraposta. “What did I really ask you? Shall I repeat the first question that night?”
Veraposta thrust back her shoulders, pressing her breasts forward. “You wanted to know what it felt like to mount a Queen.”
“No,” Tyler said, but the audience drowned him out. “I asked, ‘Why did you kill your husband, the High King?’ You claimed ‘self defense,’ because he regularly brutalized you.”
“I said nothing of the kind!”
“Really?” Tyler pulled a datacom from his
pocket. “Your honor, may I play a recording of my conversation with Queen Veraposta that night?”
“No!” she shrieked. “I did not give consent to a recording of private intercourse.”
“Judge, we did not have intercourse!” He turned back to Veraposta. “Wait, did you mean intercourse like communication and talking, or intercourse like screwing and screaming?”
That brought the Chief Prosecutor to his feet. “You Honor, please! Her Highness has suffered enough.”
“Sorry to insult your religious values, but I never touched her, Your Honor.”
“Ha!” Veraposta stepped toward him. “Your hands were all over my breasts. You thrust your tongue into my mouth.”
Tyler reflexively backed away. Damnit. Should’ve stood my ground. “Okay, maybe I did touch her a little. But it was Toorlabamba—”
“Mr. Matthews!” the Judge roared. “Any datacom recording made without the Queen’s consent is inadmissible.”
“So, there is a Quirt-Thymean rule against self-incrimination?”
Felizool sighed. “We have rules about privacy, which your secret recording violates. If you have no further questions—”
“Oh, I most certainly do, Your Honor.” Too far into the game to bail now, Tyler pressed Veraposta harder. “Do you have the gift of pheromones?”
The Queen appeared unable to find the words. Finally, Veraposta drew herself up to full height. “Many of my subjects are pheremonists. I number among them.”
“I’m an alien.” Tyler paced down front, far enough from the Queen to give the viewers—who will decide this case— no further impression of violating her personal space. “So, Your Highness, please help me out here. What can a gifted Quirt do with pheromones?”
“They enhance a pleasant mood. Nothing untoward.”
“Right. ‘Nothing untoward.’” Tyler scratched the back of his head.
“That is correct.” She shook her shoulders, which jiggled her boobs ever so slightly.
Tyler tried not to stare. God, she was magnificent. He checked the physical surroundings. Still nothing untoward happening among the statues in the judicial alcoves, and the aisles did not flow like carpeted creeks.
“Did you perfume the cabin with pheromones that night aboard your skiff? Did you ply me with bodily chemicals in order to seduce the lead counsel of your Gookie-Poo?”
The Chief Prosecutor shot to his feet again. “Your Honor!”
The purple Thymean Judge overruled him. “No, Yerzail, I want to hear where this is headed. Proceed with caution, Mr. Matthews.”
Tyler took a few steps toward Veraposta, whose beauty still captivated him. Careful, careful. This sexy woman is a blue cobra. “I’ll repeat the question. That night on your skiff, did you hose me down with psycho-active, aerosols of seduction?”
She laughed. “Of course I did. To enhance your pleasure at our joining. Are you telling me you fondled my breasts due to my wicked, chemical enchantments?”
“That’s actually a good question.” Tyler resumed pacing. “I certainly hope so. I’ve got a major Gookie-Poo who would object if I did it voluntarily.”
She faced the Judge. “Most learned Adjudicator, I have already testified to the facts. This Terran freely engaged in foreplay with me, which I felt compelled to offer in exchange for his services to Prince Zenna-Zenn. Yet he shamed me by refusing full penetration.”
“Who compelled whom? You are the pheremonist.” Tyler stopped moving, safely distant from the alleged victim of sexual exploitation.
“She stipulates to the discharge of arousal pheromones,” the Judge said. “I don’t see where this line of questing is headed.”
“Allow me to continue, and I’ll demonstrate a connection to the murder.”
“Again, proceed with caution.”
Tyler glanced at the Queen. “Are you aware that some Quirt pheremonists have the power to alter memories in targeted subjects?”
“I have heard those claims,” she said carefully.
“Do your pheromones give you that power? Did you kill your husband and erase the memory from the minds of other witnesses?”
Yerzail pounded on the prosecution table. “That question is outrageous!”
“Yes, it is,” Felizool agreed. “Perhaps Her Royal Highness would like to respond?”
“I told the court what happened. My Third Husband killed my First Husband. Prince Zenna-Zenn is guilty.”
Tyler nodded slowly. “So, you won’t answer. Fine. Your Honor, I have nothing more for the witness. And please forgive this pheromones-and-sex distraction in the middle of a murder trial.” Tyler addressed the rolling holo-cameras. “I told the Court this case was a mess. He did it. She did it. Truth is, nobody knows who did it.”
The courtroom was a frozen blue lake. Good. I have their attention. Tyler pointed at Veraposta, who made the dramatic mistake of facing his gesture.
“The Queen confessed to me.” Tyler dropped the accusing digit and shrugged. “But Zenna-Zenn confessed to the police. Another person present that night also confessed. Other witnesses have confessed to my colleagues. Emperor Bandu is still dead, and the People of the Quirt-Thyme Empire are no closer to knowing who killed him, or why.”
Felizool stood. “The Quirt-Thyme Empire requires a period of reflection to process the events of this morning. Court adjourned for Second Lunch.”
Well, now I’m certain we’re scoring points for the defense. This culture organizes its daily schedule around mealtimes, and Judge Felizool adjourned for Second Lunch two hours early.
Nineteen
J.B. decided their visit to the Lerrotica Tradeshow would be all hands on deck. He told the Recon Team to dress like they were going to a convention of business executives. Rodney wanted to show up in a yellow Matthews-Solorio jumpsuit, but J.B. ordered the kid into a business suit. He selected a forest green ensemble and broad, white necktie over a pale green shirt. The combination worked surprisingly well with Rodney’s red hair and green eyes. J.B. went with a dark suit, light blue shirt and red tie.
Rosalie suggested the women—Suzie, Arabella, Myong Li, Ulrika and Zalika—choose pants suits in neutral colors. Dark green, olive green, navy, tan, or russet. If they preferred skirts, the same colors applied. She told them the best way to complement basic shades was a long sleeve, button-up blouse and low-heel, closed toe, leatherette shoes.
One exception to the above was Parvati, whose Indian sari with delicate sandals added rich gold hues and a touch of the exotic. Myong Li chose Western dress rather than traditional Korean themes.
Another surprise occurred when Arabella and Rodney saw each other dressed for the evening. She had chosen dark green, which closely matched Rodney’s colors. The deep forest shade gave Arabella a cedars-of-Lebanon look that accentuated her raven hair and dark eyes.
J.B. wisely let the women select their own accessories. Amber, gold and turquoise necklaces soon appeared. Nothing too formal, just something dangly to add a little frosting to the eye candy. Ulrika and Zalika added colored scarves, and all female members of the Recon Team carried handbags.
As Mission Commander, J.B. equipped his holographic team members—Arabella, Myong Li, Parvati, Ulrika and Zalika—with Paco Léon’s copper colored, “magic bracelets” to allow them to travel freely without need of local holoprojectors. And everyone received datacom pads with scanning instruments and enhanced transmission to break through powerful electrostatic fields likely to exist throughout the exhibition venues. This was especially important for the holographic ladies, because their projection bracelets needed to remain in contact with the holoprojectors aboard the Legal Beagle, parked in Lerrotica’s main spaceport, fifty kilometers from the Tradeshow.
The bracelets weren’t actually magic, but some functions did a good imitation of sorcery. If a hologram’s connection was lost, she would disappear from the exhibition site and return to the Beagle’s MLC. No fatal result to the holomatrix, but the disconnected program would be abruptly sent home from the party.
Rosalie chose a long skirt so she could add her favorite accessory, a brace of blasters in traditional JPT ankle holsters. Centuries old, highly secretive technology rendered her weapons invisible to scanning devices and undetectable to the touch. It wasn’t magic, either, but J.B. had no idea how the dispatcher’s cloaking system worked.
Rosalie insisted on bringing one more item that gave J.B. goosebumps. Lucy morphed into a blue-green Toy Poodle, securely attached to her mistress by a thin leash.
He considered ordering his sister to go unarmed and Lucy-free this evening. Security would be especially tight at an arms show, and if any threats appeared Rosalie could probably pluck whatever implements of destruction she needed from displays at hand. But his greatest fear arose from contemplating what might occur with a shape-shifter in the house. The alien creature was still a child, and God only knew what could happen if Lucy decided someone was threatening “Mommy.” Despite his misgivings, J.B. deferred to his sister’s professional and parental judgment. Besides, their first stop on today’s agenda might require Rosalie’s special skills if things went badly, and Lucy had saved them several times in dangerous circumstances.
They were aboard the Beagle, prepping for take-off—Rodney was ready to spooled up the Beagle’s sublight engines for liftoff to the moon Lerrotica—when Charlie finally appeared. He carried a cane and had dressed in Black Tie. The nineteenth century, Anglo-American tuxedo came with black, single breasted jacket, black dress shoes and trousers with cummerbund. Beneath the jacket was a white shirt with pleated, bibbed front, turn-down collar, and French cuffs with gold cufflinks. And, of course, black silk bow tie.
“Hey, everybody!” Charlie waved his cane cheerfully and took an observer’s seat on the bridge. “Let’s paint the town red, Ensign Parvati. You look beautiful as always.”
“You, too, are beautiful, Mister Matthews,” she said serenely. “Now, we are both liars.”
The bridge filled with laughter. J.B. swiveled his seat at the tactical officer’s post, beside Suzie’s command chair, to study his uncle’s attire.
“Are you dancing into a holo-movie with Ginger Rogers?”
