by Tom Shepherd
“Bon mot. Just opting for elegance, my boy.” Charlie smiled. “Somebody has to remind the yokels that the Matthews-Solorio Family has money.”
“By overdressing, a thousand years out of style?”
“Cravate noire, Jeremiah. Classics never go out of style.”
The Beagle docked at hangar B-3 at Lerrotica’s Prosperity City Spaceport without incident. After securing the ship and declining postflight maintenance services due to their brief flight time, J.B. and his Recon Team boarded a shuttle which took them from the hangar bays to the main terminal. Mek colonials posted a heavy contingent of white gloved security guards at their newly constructed arrival concourse, and the Matthews party had to wait in line to clear security like other incoming visitors for the Tradeshow. As the Recon Team queued up, J.B. took Suzie aside for some quick discussion about the mission.
“I think you and the ladies, plus Rodney and Charlie, should go directly to the Tradeshow,” J.B. said. “Spread out, two-by-two, and cover as much as you can.”
“You want us to scan weapons systems or support modules that look potentially dangerous to the balance of power between the Quirts and their neighbors?” Suzie said.
“Gather as much data as you can on everything. We’ll sort out the details back at Bekka-Capella.”
“What about you and Rosalie?”
“We’re making a stop before we get to the exhibition venues,” J.B. said. “I want you to partner up with Uncle Charlie. Do what you can to make the rascal behave.”
“Why me?” Suzie said.
“He’s Family. And he likes you.”
“He’s hot for Parvati.”
“All the more reason to assign him to you.”
Suzie’s lips pursed, thoughtfully. “Are you hot for Parvati, too?”
“What—me? Of course not.”
She frowned. “Oh, that’s a lot of tosh! You stare at her, Jerry.”
“She does catch the eye. Ensign Parvati is extraordinarily good-looking. But I already have a relationship.”
“Oh, yes.” Suzie smirked. “Dr. Adelaide LeBlanc.”
“Yes.”
“No!” Suzie snapped. “Ninety thousand bloody light years away. You’ve had sex—what, twice in ten years? And you’re not even exclusive. Parvati is here. She likes you. Something could develop, if you’d give her a chance.”
“Parvati is… too…too everything. She’s way out of my league. But thank you for the kind words.” J.B. cleared his throat. “Now, will you babysit Uncle Charlie on this trip?”
“You don’t trust him?” Suzie said.
“Charlie is a Matthews.” J.B. grunted. “Of course I don’t trust him. Or my father, or Tyler sometimes.”
She smiled. A slightly wicked smile. “But you trust your mum?”
J.B. flinched at the question. “Absolutely.”
“Mad as a bag of ferrets. Membership in the Family carries some wonky dynamics.”
“That’s a fact,” he chuckled. “Don’t worry. Everybody trusts you.”
Again, the impish grin. “Like they trusted Rosalie’s girlish innocence?”
J.B. dodged the question. “Here we go. Our turn at security.”
“Pay more attention to Parvati,” Suzie said. “You’d have to be barmy not to see how she feels about you.”
“Right now, I’m paying attention to those spaceport guards scanning arrivals for contraband or weapons. Especially the one checking Rosalie.”
Despite J.B.’s trepidations, his sister passed the security screening without incident. They never checked Lucy the poodle.
J.B., Rosalie and Lucy caught an auto-skimmer outside the terminal and within half an hour they entered the glittery gaming floor of Waterway Casino. Light security for a correspondingly light afternoon crowd made it relatively easy to slip into the lift and access the second floor balcony domain of T’paeken Heirzos. J.B. was certain the boss of Lerrotica’s commercial and criminal enterprises knew they were coming to see him. He waited at the same table with a view of the Central Canal. Two burly human guards—Mindorian?—flanked him.
“What brings you back so soon?” Heirzos said. “I thought the trial started in two days.”
“It does,” J.B. said. “We’ve come to escort you to Bekka-Capella. We have a luxury suite ready for you at the Darling Cozy. You can bring your own bodyguards or let us provide security.”
“Won’t be necessary. I’ll fly down tomorrow.”
“No, sir. We need you to accompany us today, after our business at the Tradeshow is done.”
“Mr. Matthews, I am not accustomed to taking orders from anyone, much less an alien I’ve known less than a week.”
J.B. took an uninvited seat at his table. “The last time we spoke, I asked if you would testify, and the reply was, ‘You couldn’t stop me.’ If the Mek leadership of this colony and your Quirt-Thymean enemies are out to get you, the only choice was ‘take them out first.’ Do you remember saying that, Mr. Heirzos?”
“I was angry.”
“With good cause,” Rosalie said. “The men I killed were paid by somebody.”
“Could be Mek colonials,” J.B. said. “They’ve been manufacturing weapons in small settlements here on Lerrotica to equip the Quirt expansionists. They’re probably furious at your side deals with the Dengathi Stellar Lagoon.”
“And the Parvian Republic probably blames you for the arms buildup along their border with the Quirts,” Rosalie said. “The Parvians, Mr. Heirzos?”
J.B. raised a finger, teacher-like. “Worst of all, by enabling Quirt territorial aggression, which will destabilize galactic trade, you have pissed off my father.”
Rosalie picked up Lucy-poodle to pet her curly head. “Matthews-Solorio has good relationships with all the star nations involved. You would be wise to accept our offer of protection.”
“After we free Uncle Charlie, we’ll return to Annistyn and find a way to clear you of regicide charges,” J.B. said.
Heirzos frowned. “You Terrans are far too naïve. Politics isn’t that simple. If I leave Lerrotica, I will not survive for long.”
“Right the opposite,” J.B. said. “Your only hope of survival is to make the story public. Testify in open court about the Quirt expansionists and the real purpose of the Tradeshow. Embarrass the colonial government, and they will be forced to recant any role in fomenting new wars of conquest.”
Heirzos grunted. “And what if a larger, better-equipped killer team storms that luxury hotel you’ve booked?”
“We have the resources to handle any attack.” Rosalie placed the poodle on the balcony floor and drew her blasters from their ankle holsters “Please tell your bodyguards to keep their hands free of weapons. Nothing bad will happen to you.”
“What are you talking about?” Heirzos said.
“Lucy, T-Rex. Half-scale.”
A burst of coconut scent perfumed the balcony air as Lucy morphed into a two-legged, blue-green, tightly feathered carnosaur with a massive head and powerful jaws packing sixty teeth. Although Rosalie’s little friend only grew to half the size of an adult Tyrannosaur, she was still big enough to tower over the humanoids without head-butting the roof. The floors of the casino had terraced balconies, retreating step-like toward the top. Each level partially shaded the balcony below. A full-sized T-Rex might have broken through the ceiling and popped its menacing head into rows of gaming machines on the level above.
T’paeken Heirzos fell off his chair and scrambled, crab-like, away from the poodle-turned-dinosaur. Despite Rosalie’s assurances, the bodyguards went for their sidearms. Anticipating their mistrust, she dropped them to the balcony floor with two paralyzing bursts before Heirzos ’s men had their weapons out. Painful, not lethal.
“Men,” Rosalie sighed. “Why can’t they follow simple directions?” She returned her blasters to their ankle holsters.
J.B. strolled up to Lucy and patted her thick, feathered leg. “Get up, Mr. Heirzo
s. She’s perfectly behaved. Your ceiling wasn’t scraped; the floor hasn’t cracked. You haven’t been eaten.”
He climbed to his feet, bracing against the balcony rail. “Is that ugly thing a shape-shifter?”
“Careful your language. Lucy is a sentient creature. She stowed away on my brother Tyler’s ship after he touched down on a wilderness planet claimed by the Rek Kett.”
Heirzos snorted. “The Rek Kett are among the most disgusting creatures in the galaxy. I don’t blame your little friend for hopping the first available starship off any world they claimed.”
“I wanted to send her home, but she’s adopted us.” J.B. smiled up at the toothy tyrant lizard. “Lucy, back to puppy-dog, please?”
The T-rex craned her neck toward Rosalie—who nodded—then shrank into an adorable, ankle-high Toy Poodle. Only the blue-green coloring and lingering coconut scent hinted of her secret identity.
J.B. smiled. “Now, what was that about somebody sending attackers to overwhelm us at the Darling Cozy?”
“All right. You’ve made your point.” He checked his guards, then turned to Rosalie. “At least you didn’t kill these two.”
“Wasn’t necessary, Mr. Heirzos.”
“So, when do we leave?” he asked J.B.
“Right after checking out the Tradeshow. You’re my guide.”
Twenty
The Lerrotica Tradeshow occupied most of the buildings and outdoor sites at Prosperity City’s sprawling Convention Center Fairgrounds, which bordered the Central Canal, ten kilometers downstream from T’paeken Heirzos’s casino district. During the five-day convocation, arms dealers and potential customers from across the galaxy mingled at the Convention Center, where an interlocking chain of glass-and-girder pavilions housed displays of personal and ship-based weapons, holo-images of spacefaring vessels, and support modules.
Merchandise and supportive software came from an array of star nations and colonial worlds. Buyers and sellers were primarily from humanoid races—using the word loosely to mean star-five configured creatures who walked upright—but Heirzos said non-humanoid entrepreneurs and purchasing agents were a growing minority.
He steered J.B. and Rosalie down a midway packed with booths and small, walk-in stalls. The outdoor spaces at the Fairgrounds were dedicated to starship technology, no weapons on display, but the variety and specialization of supportive products amazed the Terrans. J.B. counted fourteen booths dedicated to innovative navigation equipment alone, and the market continued as far as the eye could see, with side lanes branching off the main drag every hundred meters or so.
At every intersection, a pair of white-gloved, blue-uniformed, heavily armed police—all Meklavite males—watched the foot traffic. More gloved constables roamed the booths and small outbuildings. J.B. wondered if armed patrols were meant to impress customers or suppress shoplifters.
Rosalie thumbed toward a street full of displays operated mostly by races from cultures Terrans had not yet encountered. “I’d like to study the high-tech artifacts down this lane.”
“Sure. Find out what the alien Einsteins have developed,” J.B. said.
“On second thought, I’d better not,” Rosalie said. “Don’t want to abandon my post.”
J.B. laughed. “With Lerrotica gendarmeries making a show of force? I think we’re safe. Meet me at the main pavilions when you’re done.”
Heirzos nodded his agreement, and Rosalie headed into alien country with Lucy-the-poodle trotting on a leash beside her.
J.B. and Heirzos browsed among the outdoor exhibits for about an hour. The variety of technologies was stunning. Latest advancements in quantum-level thermocouples, innovative forcefield stabilizers, sophisticated accelerants for sublight and FTL propulsion; advancements in main library computers, life support modules programmed for multiple environments, artificial gravity technologies, and new types of energetic matter containment receptacles. Everything a star nation needed to support its weapons systems.
But no weapons.
Then Heirzos led J.B. into the first of eight pavilions. While the displays outside the main Tradeshow buildings offered strictly non-lethal, support technologies, everything under the glass and girders of the Convention Center Complex was designed to fulfill the age-old, oft-repeated objective of military action—To break things and kill people.
Kill, maim, paralyze, scorch, or blow up targets, whether living beings or the products of their technologies.
J.B. and Heirzos wandered among displays of hand-held weapons—pistol-gripped sidearms and rapid-fire rifle blasters; high-impact, two-hand blast pikes, shoulder stock explosive projectors, long range sniper rifles, and more. All capable of firing kinetic, thermal, or laser “rounds” with devastating lethality.
More exotic kill toys, too. Sling-nets that tossed a glowing grid over enemy combatants and melted the hapless souls caught in its descending energy snare. Hand-thrown, self-propelled, explosive javelins with an onboard guidance system capable of hitting a locked target up to five kilometers distant.
And small, metallic, bouncing balls, programmable to stun or kill. When idly tossed in a confined space, the knuckle-sized spheres ricocheted off walls and ceiling until they struck a moving target. J.B. recalled that Rosalie, in her alter ego as the JPT dispatcher Night Storm, deployed similar stun balls to evade capture during an unauthorized surveillance jaunt at the Matthews Trade Embassy on Suryadivan Prime.
Beyond the booths of small arms, J.B. glimpsed larger displays that offered a dizzying array of ship-based weapons platforms. A picture began to emerge of the Lerrotica Tradeshow as a meetinghouse for merchants of death and well-funded customers.
J.B. gloomily contemplated the eventual deployment of the weapons touted throughout multiple venues on the Convention Center Fairgrounds and the resultant misery they will bring to sentient beings and their families throughout the galaxy. He was about to announce his disgust with the business of weaponry and break off the tour, when Rodney Rooney bounded out of a side lane. Arabella, in stilettos, struggled to keep up. He was wild with excitement, like a dog who’d spotted a rabbit.
“Mr. Matthews!” Rodney waved a hand. “I’ve found the most amazing shuttlecraft for the Beagle!”
Rooney’s enthusiasm shattered J.B.’s morbid reverie. “Calm down, Lieutenant. The Beagle isn’t big enough to house a shuttle.”
He giggled like a schoolgirl. “No, it isn’t! That’s the point.”
Arabella finally caught up. “Rodney, you’re embarrassing me. Forgive him, Mr. Matthews.”
Rooney ignored her. “She’ll fit in the cargo hold—”
“Who?” J.B. said. “Arabella?”
“No! The new shuttlecraft. She’ll fit the space created when we ripped out the housings and racks for Thorium-antimatter bombs.”
J.B. shook his head. “If I recall, that freed up about ten cubic meters. Barely large enough to store a single-person escape pod. It sure as hell won’t accommodate a shuttlecraft.”
Rodney beamed. “Sir, this shuttle has dynamic expansion.”
J.B. blinked. “You say that like I should know what it means.”
“Oh, sorry, sir. Dynamic expansion means, when she’s micro-compacted sitting on a boat deck—or in our case, cargo bay—the ship occupies nine cubic meters. Crew of four huddles together in a teeny-tiny bridge. But—get this, sir—when launched, she expands to twenty times the storage footprint.”
J.B. shook his head. “Tyler’s Sioux City wasn’t that big.”
“Yes, isn’t it marvelous? Deploys two FTL nacelles and weapons turrets with laser cannon and missile launchers. Also a galley, small cargo bay, and six sleeping cabins for crew and passengers. Lifeboat to heavy cutter in a few seconds. Dynamic expansion!”
Heirzos barged into the conversation. “That’s a lot of mass to decompress. Are you sure the sales rep isn’t selling you an empty box?”
“Have you seen it demonstrated?” J.B. said.
“Yes, yes. Didn’t we, Arabella?”<
br />
She nodded hesitantly. “We saw a holographic presentation. It seems to work.”
“Can I buy it, sir?” Rodney’s eyes were full of hope.
J.B. tapped a foot. “Tell you what, go back there and look at your supernatural shuttle through the eyes of a starship technician—which you are supposed to be, Mr. Rooney. If you are sure there is science behind the mystery, find out what they’re asking for the vessel and find me again.”
“Yes, sir! C’mon, Arabie!” He grabbed her hand and they disappeared into the crowds.
Heirzos laughed. “That is an enthusiastic young officer.”
J.B. nodded. “And a brilliant engineer. Well, who knows? Let’s see what he learns. Unless you’d like to show me the fold-out shuttle yourself.”
Heirzos shrugged. “It’s a big Tradeshow. I haven’t seen that particular display. Let’s wait for your officer to report back.”
They continued browsing among the weapons and support technologies for another half-hour. Finally, Heirzos said, “Want to see something amazing I found among this year’s new items?”
“Lead on,” J.B. said, truncating Tyler’s stock phrase from an old Congregationalist hymn.
Heirzos guided J.B. through two exhibition halls crowded with displays and merchants working the crowds. The third glass-roofed pavilion held wicked-looking ground-attack vehicles and mobile artillery. One exhibit from the Dengathi Stellar Lagoon featured a thickly armored, heavy-fire, rotating, six-barrel blaster cannon mounted on anti-grav skids. J.B. wondered how much energy it took to cook off enough gravitons and lift the massive piece to a shallow hover, let alone move it from place to place. From the sized of the firing tubes, he estimated it could unleash a thunderstorm of devastation at targets distant enough to require orbital targeting sensors for effective fire.
How the hell did the Frogs come up with advanced energetic artillery? They had no land forces to speak of, and their space based vessels were known for turning tail when approached by hostile ships.
The sales rep didn’t peak any Terran languages, and when J.B. asked Heirzos to translate his questions into Pharmaadoodil or Zyra-Crispin, the blue mobster refused.
