The Blue King Murders

by Tom Shepherd

  “Waste of time,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “See that small yellow tag? Item is sold, along with all rights to design and ancillary technologies.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “The Outer Rim Syndicate.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  Heirzos chuckled. “Of course not. Bogus purchasing corporation set up by the Quirt-Thymean expansionists.”

  “Bogus, perhaps,” J.B. said. “But there’s nothing illegal about purchases acquired through a subsidiary company under most systems of commercial law.”

  “Right. The Outer Rim Syndicate buys for a client state, paying in Galactic Credits through the Central Bank of Rahjen.”

  “Capital of the ancient empire,” J.B. said.

  “And still the banking center of most interstellar commerce. You know the story, Mr. Matthews. The last empress died a thousand years ago, but her monetary system lives on.”

  J.B. nodded. “Like Switzerland on Terra. Neutral, pacifistic, absolutely trustworthy in money matters.”

  “All transactions drawn on Rahjen accounts are untraceable.”

  “Even so, I’ll bet you have contacts who could find out.”

  Heirzos smiled. “It was the Quirt expansionists. But…”

  “You can’t prove it.”

  “Correct.” Heirzos looked him in he eye. “You’re getting an education in galactic politics.”

  “My father does business through accounts drawn on the Central Bank of Rahjen.” J.B. scanned the nearby exhibits. “Is this field gun the amazing item you wanted me to see?”

  Heirzos laughed. “Energy weapons and anti-grav generators housed in a chunk of reinforced titanium? I think not. Let’s move on.”

  The fourth pavilion offered small-scale, holo-models of attack starcraft. Fighter-size through battlecruisers. J.B. didn’t see anything new in the prototypes on display, and he didn’t want to spend hours scanning the specs of every killer ship to hunt for breakthroughs. He was glad when Heirzos picked up the pace and breezed past the merchandise reps who, like salespeople everywhere in the Universe, tried to hook the attention of passers-by.

  Suzie appeared in the fifth pavilion. Literally appeared as they strolled under the archway from the displays of attack ships in pavilion four. J.B. was startled for a second, but quickly recognized the apparition as his future sister-in-law. Heirzos had never seen her materialize before, but J.B. explained Suzie’s transformation from computer program to bioenergetic humanoid who retained the power to jump from place to place by hacking local computer networks and riding the hardware like a cyber-transit system.

  Heirzos was impressed. “Anything so lovely with those capabilities is a good system to me.”

  “Where’s Uncle Charlie?” J.B. said.

  “In the bar tent,” Suzie said. “Last time I saw him he was half-lashed, flirting with a table full of humanoid chippies.”

  “Sounds like my uncle. Have you seen anything interesting?”

  “Just one. A high-speed computer, faster and more memory than a hundred bloody MLCs, yet small enough to fit a shuttlecraft.”

  “Does it work? Did you check it out internally?”

  “I did. It does.”

  “Who manufactures the hardware?” Heirzos said.

  “The froggy berks from Dengathi.”

  Heirzos grunted. “More bootleg tech. They’re getting this shit somewhere.”

  “Wherever those cabbages are nicking the hooky,” Suzie said, “the system is absolutely brilliant.”

  J.B. shook his head slightly. With a mental re-play, he caught the gist of Suzie’s Neo-British lingo. Well, it was his own fault. He’d originally programmed her for Tyler, who selected cheeky and a bit Cockney from the personality menu. Now that she was bioenergetic, the enthusiasm of that moment was carved in her DNA. Truth be told, J.B. wouldn’t re-program her if he could. She was smart, beautiful, and a force of nature when stirred to action. His stolid, monastic demeanor appreciated her cheeky temperament.

  “How much for this cyber-miracle machine?” he said.

  “Eighty million GCs.”

  “Buy it,” J.B. said. “White tag it for M-double-I. Get proprietary rights if available. I’ll cover the sale later with Dad’s credit codes.”

  “Righto,” she said. “I’ll find you again.” Suzie disappeared.

  “Do you ever get used to that?” Heirzos said.

  “Not so far.”

  When they strolled through open archways into the seventh sales venue, J.B. decided the special item must be in the eighth and final pavilion. Then Heirzos stopped, halfway down the central lane in the seventh glass-and-girder arcade. He laughed.

  “Looks like your boy has declared Toorlazimbaa open in the Mek Union.”

  “What?” J.B. swept the crowd and immediately spotted Rodney dipping Arabella in a passionate kiss worthy of an old movie.

  “Mister Rooney!”

  “Yes, sir?” Rodney let go, and she dropped to the deck, bouncing on her ample derrière.

  “Rodney, that hurt,” Arabella groaned. “My holographic butt feels the ouch!”

  The multi-species crowd, which had sidestepped around the lovers at work, now backed away from them. Some of their cultures doubtless viewed this situation as a potential for violence. Heirzos laughed, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

  J.B. crossed his arms. “This isn’t what I sent you to do, young man.”

  “Sir, you won’t believe what I found.”

  J.B. raised an eyebrow. “Again, Mister Rooney?”

  “Yes, sir! Better than the fold-up shuttle.”

  “What about the shuttle?”

  “Oh, it’s perfect,” Rodney grinned. “I bought it.”

  “I told you to report back to me with your best scientific assessment.”

  “But they were going to sell it to an agent from the Outer Rim Syndicate—all design rights, too!”

  Heirzos shook his head but did not comment.

  “How much did you offer?” J.B. said, terrified of the answer.

  “Only two hundred million galactic credits.”

  “What!” J.B. surged toward him, hands outstretched, fully intending to choke the life out of the redheaded Lieutenant. He stopped short, grabbing Rooney by the shoulders. “Did you buy a handful of magic beans, too?”

  Rodney’s eyes swelled like white balloons, almost as if J.B. had choked him. “Your father can afford it, can’t he?”

  “Star Lawyers doesn’t have access to endless Matthews-Solorio funding. This extravagance comes out of our miserable little bank account, where we get all our cash—including your paycheck.”

  “Sir, it’s a prototype. Now we own the design and all supportive technologies.”

  Arabella was back on her feet. “Not if the check bounces, you idiot! I warned you.”

  He looked at her, misty-eyed. “But I named the shuttle after you—

  the Arabella.”

  “No, thank you.” She turned to J.B. “Captain Matthews, why do women like me fall in love with complete fools?”

  Heirzos laughed hard, shaking his blue head. “Well, J.B.? Any words of wisdom from your religious education?”

  “‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned’ comes to mind.” He sighed. “I’ll Apexcom my father and see if he wants to back the deal.”

  Rodney clapped his hands. “Oh, great! Can we keep the name?”

  “No!” Arabella said.

  J.B. glanced at Arabella. “It is a fitting name. You saved our bacon several times on this mission alone.”

  “Thank you, sir, but it’s inappropriate. I’m a crew member.” She wheeled to Rodney. “Tell him about the other—”

  “That’s right!” Rodney squealed. “Sir, the folding shuttle isn’t the best deal I found.”

  J.B.’s lips stiffened. “Tell me, Rodney, before I violate the Sixth Commandment.”

  “The Dengathi have a working model of a teleportation device.”

  J.
B.’s mind turned inside-out. If true, Rodney was forgiven. J.B.’s father had lusted after teleportation technologies as long as he could remember. The Old Man’s R&D boffins repeatedly declared that breaking down objects into an energy matrix, transporting the matter streams across empty space, and reassembling them at a distance was scientifically impossible. Something out of twentieth century sci-fi, the stuff of myth and miracle. Then Tyler and Suzie reported they had experienced the scientific miracle firsthand during their brief jaunt to Andromeda via Jump Gate Omega. Suddenly, teleportation rose to the top of Daddy’s Christmas wish list.

  J.B. peered into Rodney’s bright green eyes. “Did you see it work?”

  “Yes, sir. They converted a glass decanter to an energy signal and projected it across the pavilion where a receiving unit reassembled the decanter.”

  Arabella nodded. “Not sophisticated enough for organic beings, but apparently the Dengathi teleporter can move small cargo with ease.”

  Even if teleportation were possible, J.B. remained skeptical. “Are you sure the Frogs didn’t fake the demonstration?”

  Heirzos spoke up. “It works. One of my teckkies checked it out.”

  “Your amazing exhibit?” J.B. said.

  “No, but that’s also in pavilion eight,” Heirzos said. “The most innovative tech displays are there.”

  J.B. raised an eyebrow. “Special class of weapon?”

  “You’ll see,” Heirzos said. “It’s near the teleporter exhibit.”

  “Sir, we need to hurry,” Rodney said. “They’ve already sold a few prototype teleporters to aliens from all over the galaxy.”

  Heirzos and Rodney led the way through the crowds. J.B. pondered the possibility of double prizes—teleport tech for M-double-I and a chance to keep the X-ray cannon out of the wrong hands. He wondered what the Frogs would charge them for a package deal—a crude teleporter and the advanced screen-buster? With two hundred million already spent for a collapsible shuttle, the price tag for today’s shopping spree might daunt even The Old Man.

  A slow-moving throng of attendees packed the archway to the final pavilion, and before they entered the venue J.B. heard the unmistakable sound of kinetic blaster fire. But instead of screams in terror, applause and cheers rang out over the heads of the multi-species multitude.

  J.B. wasn’t tall as his brother, but a good portion of the alien spectators were even shorter, so he had a clear view of target shooting ranges on both sides of the center aisle. Energy curtains backstopped the metallic rounds fired by shoppers testing an assortment of rifle blasters to the left and right of the midway. Most of the crowd watched the action to the left, where a red-haired human female wielded a rifle blaster and knocked down target drones with quick, deadly precision.

  “Rosalie,” J.B. muttered with a touch of Family pride.

  His sister fired three bursts on full automatic, splattering the energy backstop with fragments of flying targets. The crowd howled, whistled, stomped, applauded, and otherwise expressed delight in a wide array of species-specific noises and gestures.

  Rosalie laid down the rifle blaster and smiled at her people approaching through the crowd. She waved and Lucy the poodle barked happily from the carpeted floor near her mistress, leash trailing behind her. She wagged her tail and sprinted to Rosalie’s brother.

  J.B. bent over, petted her curly blue-green coat and took the leash in hand. “Good girl.” Stay in doggie mode, please. He walked Lucy back to Rosalie.

  “Did you see me shoot?”

  “Show off,” J.B. said wryly.

  She giggled. “A little.”

  “C’mon. We have to hurry.” He handed her Lucy’s leash and explained about the teleporter and screen-buster as they followed Arabella, Rodney and Heirzos through the crowds of pavilion eight.

  About ten display booths from the rear entrance, Rodney stopped and shouted to J.B. “Look, sir! It’s the collapsible shuttle-cutter.” He pointed to a stubby looking box of metal with a lone viewscreen. It looked like a one-man flight simulator, or a toilet unit with a window.

  “Dear God,” J.B. said. “We spent two hundred million on that?” He wished there were time to stop and renege on the purchase, but the lure of dual technological systems desperately wanted by The Old Man was irresistible. “Where’s the amazing item, T’paeken?”

  “Straight ahead,” the blue Quirt called over his shoulder. “And it isn’t a teleporter.”

  He stopped at a display booth where a small crowd listened to a Dengathi sales representative. J.B. recognized him instantly. Mindorian, square face, thick eyebrows and lively eyes. Montejo Bouché.

  The Matthews party joined other spectators and listened to Bouché extol the virtues of the X-ray screen-buster. The Mindorian hustler waved to J.B. and gave him a thumbs-up signal.

  Bingo. The first and most important item to acquire. J.B. leaned toward Heirzos. “How do we bid?”

  He shrugged, and his dog ears flopped. “Too late. See the white tag? Item is sold.”

  “Damnit! Sold to whom?”

  “Can’t tell from here. Need to scan the purchaser’s code.”

  J.B. motioned to Rosalie, Arabella and Rodney and they stepped away from the group who were still listening to the presentation.

  Suzie re-appeared from thin air and joined them. When he attempted to bring her up to speed, she interrupted him mid-sentence.

  “Jerry, listen! I’ve got to tell you—”

  “Did you buy the supercomputer?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Let me guess. You found the teleporter, too?”

  “No! I found—him!”

  Suzie pointed at a dark-haired, mustachioed, middle-aged human who approached from the far end of the pavilion. He wore a furry waistcoat. Bushy brows set off dark eyes, and his face was scarred on both cheeks. Capitão Flávio Tavares of the Segerian Privateer Henrique. Old friend of Noah and Bianca Matthews, but he betrayed them at the battle for the Alpha Gate.

  Rosalie handed Lucy’s leash to Arabella. Beaming sweetly, she stepped toward the handsome, middle-aged pirate. “Flávio!”

  He grinned broadly. “It is good to see you, minha querida—”

  Still smiling, she balled her fist and smashed him between the eyes. Tavares howled and bent over, hands on knees, and babbled in European Portuguese. Blood dripped from a broken nose. Rosalie replied in his language, and Suzie blushed from the torrent of profanity the redhaired Matthews daughter hurled at him. Passing spectators, none of whom spoke Portuguese, gasped and gave them a wide berth.

  “I know…you hate me…” Still bent in half, Tavares attempted to staunch the flow of red, but it flowed over his wrist and puddled on the carpet.

  Rosalie spat. “Hate is too sweet to waste on a desgraçado like you.”

  Now a crowd had gathered, and J.B. was beginning to worry about constabulary interference in this little scene. “Get out of here, Tavares,” he said, “before we break more than your nose.”

  “Wait! Let me tell you. The screen buster. You must not let them get the screen buster.”

  “You’re too late. It’s sold.”

  “I know,” he wheezed. “Miss Lulu purchased it for your father early this morning.”

  “We should be going,” Heirzos said. “The police are probably on the way. I can’t afford that kind of attention.”

  J.B. ignored the blue mobster. “Lulu Treymore bought it already? If we own the screen buster—”

  “They are planning to steal it from the display.” Tavares stood, pinching the bridge of his still-bleeding nose. “It is the only prototype. No one will be safe if they get their hands on that weapon.”

  “Who plans to nick it?” Suzie said.

  “My former associates. The Mek rebels believe they will deliver the weapon to their cause, but pirate mercenaries intend to steal it for themselves. If they get an X-ray cannon, your shipping will be defenseless.”

  “And you’re telling us this because…?” J.B. waved his hand in a
ir circles.

  “Because I owe your family a great apology. And because I need the services of the Star Lawyers.”

  Rosalie laughed demonically. “I’m going to kill him now, Brother.”

  “No!” He turned to Tavares. “Tell me about the—”

  From somewhere above the pavilion a heavy laser, the kind used by mining barges to slice up asteroids, ripped into the roof and sent pedestrians screeching away from falling glass, molten dribbles of steel, and shards of metal debris. People screamed and scattered.

  Rosalie drew her blasters, waded upstream into the terrified crowd, and positioned herself beside the screen-buster on display, weapons pointed at the roof. Lucy disappeared from her leash, transformed into a fruit fly, and buzzed after her mistress.

  “Suzie, can you computer-hop into whatever ship is hovering above the pavilion?” J.B. said. “Seize their MLC?”

  Her image flickered, then solidified again. “Too far to remote-access. I need to be aboard the vessel.”

  Now the unseen intruder hovering above the shattered pavilion roof moved from burglar to kill-mode. Kinetic tracer rounds streaked through the gaping hole and chewed up the exhibition floor. Chunks of concrete and toasted carpet flew in the hurricane of glowing bullets as the attackers gunned down screaming spectators and carved a circular kill zone around the screen-buster display. Montejo Bouché froze, looked up, and vanished in a downpour of hot metal rounds.

  Arabella and Suzie phased from solid form to translucent, ghostly figures no bullet or thermal blast could harm. The fully human targets—J.B., Rodney, Heirzos, and Tavares—ducked under countertops beyond the waterfall of red-orange tracers.

  A hundred steps away, Rosalie huddled under the table which supported the X-ray cannon. She returned fire with little effect. Suddenly the tracers ceased and the hole in the girder and glass ceiling filled with a shaft of hazy white light. Rosalie ankle-holstered her blasters, slid from under the display table, and hopped aboard the screen-buster as a tractor beam locked on.

  “Rosalie, get off that thing!” J.B. shouted.

  She leaned forward to hug the torpedo-shaped weapon and rode the frosty light toward the pavilion’s pierced roof. Halfway to the gap, Rosalie felt a set of paws gently latch onto the fabric at the back of her dress, followed by a hesitant meow. “Lucy? How did you—hold on!”