Usurper

by Richard F. Weyand

  “Disrobe, please, Mr. Bronsky, and put that coverall on.”

  “All right. If you wish.”

  Bronsky knew that argument at this point would accomplish nothing. The time for that was when the attorneys got involved. All resistance would accomplish now is get him assistance with his compliance to what was still politely phrased as a request. Bronsky disrobed completely and then put on the prison coverall.

  “Take him to 17,” the officer ordered.

  The two Guardsmen then took him to a closed cell and locked him in.

  Bronsky still didn’t know where he was.

  Susan Kaplan came to in a small closed prison cell. It wasn’t Imperial City Police headquarters. She was familiar with the cells there. She sat up on the cot, and regretted it immediately, as she got a stab of pain like a migraine, followed by a wave of nausea. She lay back down.

  How the hell did she end up here? She tried to remember. She had had breakfast at one of her normal haunts, and had left the diner. Oh, yeah. She had run into a couple of Imperial City police, who tried to arrest her. She had tried to run, and been taken down with a stun gun. She then fought them, and one of them must have hit her with a tranq dart.

  So she was in prison. Somewhere. On what charges she didn’t know. Could be any of a number of things. Most of her money-making activities were frowned on by the authorities. She tried to contact her attorney in VR, but there was a jammer on her, and she couldn’t access VR at all. Fuck.

  Several hours later – Kaplan had slept off and on and had no idea how much time had passed – two soldiers in what she recognized as Imperial Guard uniforms came to her cell and transferred her to an interview room across the hall. Imperial Guard? What the hell? Where the hell was she?

  She went with them quietly, but she was fuming. She was supposed to be able to call her attorney. To be told what the charges were. She knew her rights. But they had told her nothing.

  The interview room had two straight-back chairs facing each other over a table. The Guardsmen had her sit in the far chair, facing the door, then handcuffed her wrists and ankles to the chair. The chair itself was bolted to the floor. The two Guardsmen took up watch positions in the corners behind her.

  After several minutes, two more Guardsmen entered, carrying a padded chair. They set this at the far end of the room by the door. They then took up watch positions in the corners at the far end of the room.

  Kaplan watched all this silently as her rage grew. These underlings wouldn’t tell her anything, so there was no sense asking. She’d been through all this many times before, with the Imperial City Police, and nobody would talk to her until the detective came.

  After several more minutes, an Imperial Guard officer entered the room, looked around, and then held the door for a young blond woman in a business suit. With a shock, Kaplan recognized the Empress. She sat in the padded chair and turned her blue eyes on Kaplan.

  “Ms. Kaplan. Last Monday night, a young woman in my employ was murdered when she reached her apartment building. We know without any doubt that you were one of the spotters. We got your DNA profile from the gum you discarded in a trash bin on the arcade. Someone is going to come in soon and ask you about your role, who you were working for, and who the shooter was. You will answer these questions or suffer the consequences of your refusal.”

  Kaplan’s shock had dissipated, but her rage had been building underneath it.

  “Fuck you, bitch! And fuck your little redheaded bitch, too. Friend of yours, huh? Well, too fucking bad. I know my rights, and I’m not going to answer any of your goddam questions. So you can just go fuck yourself.”

  The blond considered her for a moment.

  “Very well.”

  The Empress stood up and turned to the Imperial Guard officer standing by the door. He opened the door for her, but she spoke to him before she left.

  “Drug the answers out of her, then execute her. I’ll send down an Imperial Decree authorizing it.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Kaplan threw herself forward against her shackles.

  “WAIT!”

  But the Empress was gone.

  The Imperial Guard officer and the two Guardsmen at the front of the room left. Several minutes later, the officer returned with another man dressed in a suit carrying a small medical bag. He withdrew a pulse injector, loaded it with an ampoule, and approached Kaplan.

  She flailed frantically within her shackles, screaming obscenities, but the two Guardsmen behind her clamped her upper arms and torso against the chair until the doctor could inject her. As the drug hit her, she felt herself grow limp and heavy, and she could no longer physically struggle. She could still resist, but it was only in her mind.

  The Imperial Guard officer sat in the chair opposite her at the table. He folded his hands on the table.

  “Were you a spotter for the shooting that occurred last Monday night?”

  Kaplan clamped down on her mouth, tightened her mind against the near compulsion to answer the question. She would say nothing. They couldn’t make her. When they realized that, they would have to let her go.

  When she didn’t answer, the Imperial Guard officer nodded to the doctor, who loaded another ampoule in the pulse injector. Kaplan didn’t know whether it was another drug or more of the same. She couldn’t do anything but watch as he injected her again.

  When the drug hit her, she had a compulsion to talk, to say anything. She concentrated on nursery rhymes and dirty jokes, babbling constantly. Anything but what they wanted to know. She forced her mind away from last Monday night, switched to cooking recipes when the obscenities wore out.

  The Imperial Guard officer tried to poke at that stream-of-consciousness coming out of her mouth by asking questions.

  “Who was the other spotter?”

  Kaplan dodged the question, rambling on about a dog named Spot. The Imperial Guard officer listened for a while.

  “Who was the shooter?”

  No! Almost he got her with that one. Shooting star. Meteor. Kaplan started naming all the celestial bodies she could think of. Planet names. Solar types. Anything.

  The Imperial Guard officer turned to the doctor and nodded.

  “There’s no coming back from this one, Captain.”

  “I understand, doctor. Proceed.”

  The doctor loaded another ampoule into the pulse injector and approached her. Kaplan’s eyes bulged as she watched him reach out with the injector, and her babble turned to entreaties to leave her alone, but there was nothing she could do to stop him. When this drug hit her, she lost conscious control of her mouth, and her babbling ceased.

  “Were you a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  Kaplan could hear herself speak, one-word answers in a monotone, but she couldn’t stop it. She was an outside observer of her own voice. She screamed in her mind, but it did not reach her mouth.

  “Yes.”

  “Who was the target for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Redhead.”

  “Who was the other spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Derek.”

  “Was Derek Beckham the other spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you and Derek Beckham lovers?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are you Derek Beckham’s girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “What word best describes your relationship with Derek Beckham?”

  “Associates.”

  “You and Derek Beckham are associates in crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was the shooter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Joey.”

  “Joey Bronze?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who hired you as a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Joey.”

  “Had you known Joey Bronze before last week?”

  “No.”

  “Who introduced you to
Joey Bronze?”

  “Derek.”

  “Did Derek Beckham introduce you to Joey Bronze to be the second spotter last Monday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Derek Beckham know Joey Bronze before last week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who paid you for being a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Joey.”

  “Did Joey Bronze pay you and Derek Beckham at the same time?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much did Joey Bronze pay you to be a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Thousand.”

  “Did Joey Bronze pay you a thousand credits to be a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Two.”

  “Did Joey Bronze pay you two thousand credits to be a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Joey Bronze pay Derek Beckham two thousand credits to be a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Three.”

  “Did Joey Bronze pay Derek Beckham three thousand credits to be a spotter for last Monday night’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Joey Bronze pay you two thousand credits in cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Joey Bronze pay Derek Beckham three thousand credits in cash?”

  “Yes.”

  Through all these questions, Kaplan was the unwilling observer of her own answers to the Guard officer’s questions, with no ability to control or stop or override her own mouth. She screamed and fought and struggled against the mental prison in which she found herself, to no avail.

  And then her sanity slipped from her grasp.

  Captain David Mercer looked at Kaplan, slumped in the chair, head lolling about, her eyes rolling about aimlessly.

  “That’s all you’re going to get, Captain. She’s gone,” Doctor Morton Galway said.

  “All right, doctor. Carry out the execution.”

  The doctor loaded one more ampoule into the pulse injector. He administered it to Kaplan, and ten seconds later she went completely limp. Galway felt for a pulse, then turned to Mercer.

  “She’s dead.”

  It was somber on the pool deck that evening. Dinner had been very good – broiled brisket with a Bordelaise sauce, new potatoes, and fried baby carrots, with a garden salad, and a scoop of peppermint ice cream as a closer – but Dee hadn’t eaten much.

  “You seem off tonight,” Bobby said to Dee.

  “I watched the interrogation of the Kaplan woman. That was hard to watch,” Dee said.

  “You didn’t have to watch it,” Cindy said.

  “No, when it comes to that stuff, if I’m going to order it, I’m going to watch it.”

  “I watched it,” Bobby said and shrugged. “She knowingly participated in the cold-blooded murder of Vash Medved, and had no remorse at all. So I got no sympathy. The world’s better off without her.”

  “That’s not yours to judge, Bobby,” Cindy said.

  “No, but it is mine,” Dee said. “At least on stuff like this.”

  “Did she admit she was the spotter?”

  “Yes,” Bobby said. “Under the interrogation drugs.”

  “And did she verify the identities of the other two?” Sean asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Bobby said. “Multiple times, actually.”

  “Well, there you go,” Sean said.

  “So now what about the other two,” Cindy asked.

  “They’re tomorrow,” Dee said. “Hopefully we don’t have to do the same thing to get our answers.”

  “I have an idea there,” Bobby said. “Show them the recording of the Kaplan interrogation.”

  “That might actually help,” Dee said.

  She sighed.

  “And once we get the answers, we go after the big fish.”

  That night, alone in bed, Bobby was distracted and uninterested in Cindy’s attentions.

  “What’s the matter, lover? Bothered by that interrogation recording?”

  “No. I was serious when I said the world was better off without her. I have no problems with that at all.”

  “What then?”

  “I worry about Dee, Cindy. She worries too much about the villains and not enough about herself. She needs to take better care of herself.”

  “How? She exercises, she eats well – well, other than tonight, at least – and she has medical people on staff.”

  “I’m talking about her security. She’s too vulnerable here. Too easy a target.”

  “You want to move her?”

  “Yeah. Imperial Guard wants to put her someplace more secure. Have her work from VR. But she won’t hear of it. Says it’s her job, and she won’t shirk it.”

  “She’s probably right, Bobby.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s what makes it so hard.”

  “Bobby, look at me. There’s lots of ways to die, some good and some bad. There’s stupid shit, like Melsbach syndrome, or a car accident or something. Dying while fighting the good fight has got be one of the best. We can’t know whether we live or die tomorrow, but we can live today as best we can.”

  “Dum vivimus, vivamus?”

  “Yes. That’s it. That’s it exactly. While we live, let us live. And spit in the eye of Death and all his minions. C’mon, honey. Do me. Do me good and hard. Celebrate life with me. And when it’s over, it’s over. But we’ll know we did our best.”

  More Interrogations

  Derek Beckham assumed it was morning. There was no indicator of time in the cell except meals. He couldn’t even check the time in VR. They had brought him supper, after which he had slept. They had since brought him breakfast. So it must be morning.

  About an hour after breakfast, two Guardsmen came and got him and took him to an interview room across the hall. They shackled him into the far chair, which was bolted to the floor. Two Guardsmen took up posts in the corners behind him.

  After several minutes, an Imperial Guard captain entered the room.

  “We have opened up one VR channel to you. There is a recording there you may wish to view before your interview.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but left the room.

  Curious, Beckham opened the recording. He was in immersive VR, in this same room, but watching from one side. Like any high-quality VR recording, he had the sense of actually being there. Shackled into the chair he was in now was Susan Kaplan, whom he called Suzie Q. He was shocked when he saw the Empress enter and speak to her. He watched Kaplan’s tirade against the Empress and the Empress’s drug and execution order.

  He watched the whole thing with a growing combination of fascination and dread. The administration of the drugs, Kaplan’s resistance and ultimate crumbling under the multiple drugs, her lapse into incoherence, and finally her death. When she was dead, he saw two Guardsmen wheel in a gurney with an open body bag on it. They lifted her body up out of the chair – the chair he now sat in – placed it in the body bag and zipped it closed. The body dripped on the floor as they moved it, as Kaplan had voided her bladder and bowels sometime during her questioning and death.

  The VR recording ended there, and Beckham was once again in the chair in the interview room. The same chair, the same interview room. He was in a cold sweat, and felt both shock and nausea from his viewing of the recording.

  It was maybe fifteen minutes later that two Guardsmen entered, placed a padded chair against the far wall by the door, and took up their posts in the far corners. He knew what was coming next, but he wouldn’t make Kaplan’s mistake.

  Several minutes later, the Imperial Guard captain entered, looked around, and then held the door for the Empress. She was dressed in an expensive but normal business suit. She sat in the padded chair and faced him.

  “Mr. Beckham.”

  “Your Majesty,” Beckham said, and bowed his head.

  “Mr. Beckham, someone ordered the assassination of one of my employees last Monday as a way of derailing a project
of mine. That was an act of treason. Withholding information that could lead to the capture of that person is aiding and abetting treason. Both are capital crimes. You stand accused of being an accessory to that assassination.”

  “But that accusation was obtained under drugs, Your Majesty. It won’t stand up in court.”

  “Correct. It won’t. But you do not stand accused before a lower court, Mr. Beckham. You stand accused before the Throne. I am not constrained by the rules of evidence the Throne has put in place for the lower courts. I must act in the best interests of the Empire as I see them, and your rights before the lower courts do not apply.”

  “I see, Your Majesty.”

  “Yesterday, Mr. Beckham, Susan Kaplan died in that chair, at my order. We had a positive DNA identification on her from something she discarded during your assistance to Mr. Bronsky. We also have a partial DNA identification on you and Mr. Bronsky, as well as Ms. Kaplan’s answers during her interrogation. And so I offer you choice. Answer our questions, honestly and completely, and earn some leniency from me, or we will drug the answers out of you and you will die, today, in that chair, as Ms. Kaplan did.”

  “Leniency, Your Majesty?”

  “I have considered the matter carefully, Mr. Beckham. If we in fact determine who gave the order for the assassination, based on your answers and other sources, I will give you an Imperial Pardon for all past crimes save this one, for which I will give you a suspended sentence of death. That would mean, though, that if you are ever again convicted of a felony, anywhere in the Empire, the punishment would be the carrying out of that sentence.”

  “You would release me, Your Majesty?”

  “Under those terms, yes, Mr. Beckham.”

  “I will answer your questions, Your Majesty.”

  “Honestly and completely, Mr. Beckham.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Be certain that you do, Mr. Beckham. Good day.”

  The Empress stood up and left the room. The Imperial Guard captain left with her, and returned in a few minutes, without, Beckham noted with relief, the doctor. The officer sat in the facing chair at the table and folded his hands on the table.