The Empire of Ruin:
Book Four of the Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind
By
Robert I. Katz
Also by Robert I. Katz
Edward Maret: A Novel of the Future
The Cannibal’s Feast
The Kurtz and Barent Mystery Series:
Surgical Risk
The Anatomy Lesson
Seizure
The Chairmen
The Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind:
The Game Players of Meridien
The City of Ashes
The Empire of Dust
The Empire of Ruin:
Book Four of the Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind
Copyright © 2018 by Robert I. Katz
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design by Steven A. Katz
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
The End
Information about the Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind
Chapter 1
“Canapé, sir?”
Michael surveyed the tray of assorted tidbits held out to him by the little drone and selected a mushroom stuffed with crab meat. The crab, nearly four meters long and armed with pincers that could easily decapitate a tiger, had been confined in a holding tank until an hour before the party, when it had been electrocuted and then rendered down into succulent, tender morsels. “Thank you,” he said.
“My pleasure, sir,” the drone said, and floated on toward the next party-goer.
It’s good to be rich, Michael thought. His suit resembled an ancient tuxedo but it was as light as air and fit him like a second skin. Men, women and a scattering of alien beings, some waddling on three legs, a few floating with the aid of anti-gravity belts, a few others skittering across the polished marble floor on stiff, black exoskeletons, all of them dressed in elegant, obviously expensive clothing wandered through the enormous room, mingling, chattering and occasionally idly discussing deals and arrangements that would affect the flow of billions of Empire credits and the lives of thousands of employees.
Michael smiled. Rich, he thought again. Pity it wasn’t real. Then again, considering the fact that he owned the London, the London’s cargo and the size of his current credit balance, it pretty much was. Upper middle class, at least, or lower upper, if he wanted to stretch it, and hopefully a lot more to come.
“Mr. Barrad,” Johnathon Prescott Jones said, “welcome to Prescott House.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s a pleasure.”
The Prescott Corporation maintained a sizeable corporate retreat on the very little, but very important world of Dancy, with its own private beach, Empire class restaurants and notable spa. A week at Prescott House was a favorite perk of the corporate elite young and old and while in residence, the Prescott Jones family lived in private quarters occupying the top two floors of the main building. The party to which Michael had been invited occupied the main ballroom.
The older Prescott Jones, for many years CEO and Chairman of the Board of the Prescott Corporation, looked nothing like his nephew, so recently deceased in a skiing accident on the winter resort habitat of Kodiak (or so the official story went). He was tall, well-built and tanned, with sharp gray eyes and a ready smile.
“You have an interesting reputation,” Prescott Jones said.
Michael smiled, sipped his drink and modestly said nothing. Prescott Jones smiled back. “The example that you represent is enticing. I wish that I had the freedom to travel the space-ways, but I’m afraid that corporations do not run themselves.”
Michael gave a negligent shrug and signaled to a drone carrying a tray full of champagne. The drone drifted toward them. Michael deposited his empty glass on the tray, selected a new one and sipped, nodding his head. The champagne was excellent. “This is true,” he said, “but they don’t have to be run by you or by me. You could delegate all of it and spend your life doing whatever amuses you.”
Prescott Jones looked for a moment as if he was considering this idea, then he smiled wistfully. “The Prescott Corporation is successful and growing. I flatter myself that it would not be so successful if someone with a less immediate interest were in charge.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Your nephew did not share your convictions.”
Prescott Jones blinked. “My nephew,” he said.
“Paul Prescott Jones. I met him recently, shortly before his demise, on Kodiak.”
Johnathon Prescott Jones stared at him. He wrinkled his nose and glanced away. “My nephew and I disagreed about many things.”
“I found him to be a generous and charming man.”
“Did you?” Prescott Jones seemed surprised at this. “My nephew had a simple approach to things. He had no need to strive and so he didn’t. It does not do to speak ill of the dead, but he lived a frivolous life. I would have been bored.”
“Perhaps he had other interests of which you were unaware.” No perhaps about it; but Johnathan Prescott Jones’ apparently was indeed unaware of his late nephew’s criminal inclinations. His heartbeat did not increase. The scent of fear, or even of interest, was not present.
Prescott Jones stared at him. “I doubt that,” he said.
Michael shrugged. “He fancied himself a gourmet and was very proud of his chef. I attended a number of dinner parties at his residence.” Michael allowed his eyes to sweep around the capacious room. “A small estate. Nothing so grand as this.”
Prescott Jones nodded his head. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he said, then he seemed to spot something in the crowd. “Excuse me. There is somebody I need to speak with.”
“Of course,” Michael said. “Thank you again for inviting me.”
“Space is wide,” General Haynes had said. “There are hundreds of settled worlds and many of these worlds keep records poorly, or not at all. There are billions of people who don’t officially exist on any Empire census, and frankly, there are many thousands of others, maybe millions, who are listed incorrectly.
“We take a laissez-faire attitude because we don’t have any choice but it’s a difficult environment to guarantee security. Anybody can assume a false identity. Anybody might be something other than what he seems.” The General sat back in his seat, frowning.
Tell me about it, Michael thought. He held his hands beneath his chin and tapped his fingers together. “There are advantages, as well. I would think that the situation can be made to work in your favo
r.”
The General blinked and gave him a long, slow smile. “Somehow, I imagine that you know all this?” It wasn’t really a question.
Michael shrugged.
He had been offered the rank of Commander in the Imperial Navy and placed on indefinite assignment. Michael had been reluctant at first to accept the arrangement but General Haynes had reassured him. “You won’t be hobbled by it. We know that you’re not really a military man.” The General’s eyes flickered at this statement, and he almost smiled. Michael said nothing. “I understand your reluctance to place yourself under someone else’s command. You can resign the commission at any time. You’ll be an independent agent. The rank is for your own benefit, in case you need to prove your bona fides, or to call on us for assistance.”
“Put it in writing,” Michael said.
“Naturally,” the General replied stiffly, and on that basis, Michael had accepted. There were advantages to the situation. The London would be listed as a civilian vessel under military contract and he would no longer need to purchase supplies. Any Naval installation would give him what he requested, no questions asked. They provided him with a series of pre-programmed identities, for himself and all his crew; and they gave him some additional personnel, a squadron of Imperial Marines, plus a “liaison” named Henrik Anson, officially in charge of the marine contingent but whose real function, Michael suspected, was to keep an eye on Michael. That was fine with Michael, since the arrangement allowed him to keep an eye on Anson, and by extension, on his superiors. It was always easier to spy on a spy, Michael reflected, if you knew who he was and where he happened to be.
For now, Michael was Luciano Barrad, the heir to an asteroid mining facility that had, many centuries ago, branched out into volatile hydrocarbons extracted from the cores of gas-giants. The asteroid had long since been mined out, the need for energy derived from hydrocarbons vanished with the re-discovery of reliable fusion and EM technology. No matter; the money had been safely invested and Barrad Holdings now owned shares in nearly a thousand different corporations. Luciano Barrad was very rich indeed. He commanded his own ship. He went where he wished and did as he pleased.
There had been five different Luciano Barrads before Michael Glover. It was one of the more popular identities maintained by military intelligence.
Dancy was a small world of placid, blue skies, warm seas and tropical lagoons, only twenty light-years from Reliance, the capital world of the Empire. Terra Nova was the only large city on Dancy. Almost all of the largest corporations, richest men and women and most important families maintained a residence on Dancy. It was customary for the government to adjourn to the little world during the annual three month Winter recess, when Reliance wandered far from its sun and the capital world grew cold, rainy and dark.
Follow the money, always a good idea when conducting an investigation, and no world possessed more money than Dancy.
The slave trade was spreading outward from the edges of Imperial space, growing like a cancer. There had been numerous attacks on merchant ships, habitats and even naval installations. Somebody had to be making money by buying and selling slaves, or at least obtaining some advantage from the disruption, or there would be no reason to do it.
“He wasn’t sweating,” Michael said, “And his heart rate didn’t change at all when I mentioned his nephew.”
Henrik Anson was tall, fit and lean, with a thin scar across one cheek. He looked at Michael moodily. “You can tell that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Anson pursed his lips. “A useful talent,” he said.
Anson’s rank was Colonel. He was the commanding officer of the small marine contingent aboard the London. Though his official rank was higher than Michael’s, the London was Michael’s ship and his contract with the military left no doubt that Michael, not Anson, was in charge.
In actuality, while Anson and his ten marines had presumably started their careers in the more traditional branches of the Service, all of them, Michael was fairly certain, were trained as spies. Michael was not certain if Anson knew that Michael knew this, but since neither of them were fools, it had to be assumed. It also had to be assumed that the main object of Anson’s spying was Michael and the other members of his unconventional crew, possibly with a goal of taking over the ship if opportunity presented. Anson was given a room of his own in the same corridor as Curly, Andrew Sloane and the others. His men were housed in comfortable but somewhat less luxurious quarters one deck below, alongside his contingent of twenty Illyrian mercenaries.
Michael had appointed Anson his Chief of Security, not that he needed one. Anson, to Michael’s complete lack of surprise, filled the role excellently.
So now, Anson knew that Michael’s senses were enhanced. It might have been smarter to keep this information to himself but after giving the question careful thought, Michael had decided that a bit of intimidation might just make Anson hesitate to push things. Romulus, for the duration of this mission, was confining himself inside his wall panel. Anson had no idea of Romulus’ existence and many of the London’s other capabilities, and Michael’s as well, were not apparent, either to the Marines or the Illyrians bunking on the lower deck.
“So, he’s not lying,” Anson said.
“Or he’s very good at controlling his reactions. Outwardly, he clearly disapproved of his nephew’s dissolute lifestyle.”
Anson’s lips twitched. “But does he know more about his nephew’s activities than he admits? And what exactly was Paul Prescott Jones doing on Kodiak, anyway?”
“Paul Prescott Jones is dead. He’s no longer in a position to commit mischief; and he was nowhere near the center of the conspiracy, whatever it really is. Paul Prescott Jones was middle management. He identified ships that could be easily taken, passenger ships with little or no defensive capability, along with their itineraries, and he received a share of the profits. Exactly where he placed in their hierarchy is a question mark. Judging by the fact that he wasn’t invited along when Cabot, Crane and Rivas made their escape, I think we can assume that he was not regarded as a significant player.”
“So, who would a billionaire playboy, who didn’t need the money and was presumably just doing it for kicks, choose to work for?”
“We have no evidence that it was his uncle,” Michael said.
Anson frowned. “No. Not yet.”
The stands surrounding the race track were filled. The sky overhead was blue and almost cloudless, the day pleasantly cool. Michael Glover sat in an elevated box, waiting while the sand was raked and the worst of the spilled blood removed. “I thought these things were fed before the race?” he said.
The groom frowned. “Some trainers believe that they run better if they’re hungry.”
Michael grunted. The last race had turned into chaos when one of the giant, mutated cheetahs had turned on its rider. Incited by the smell of blood, the other animals had joined in the feast. The hapless rider’s screams were abruptly cut off when one of the cheetahs crushed his skull and swallowed his brain. By the time the guards arrived with tranquilizer guns and shock prods, the rider had been reduced to a few scattered shreds of flesh. “That seems unwise,” Michael said.
The groom swallowed and diplomatically said nothing.
“Luciano.” Michael looked up. The man standing at the rail to his box was of indeterminate age, like most of the adults on this world. He was tall and thin, with sharp green eyes and a strong chin. He wore simple summer clothing that was well made but not ostentatious. His name was David Chan, a co-owner of Bratton Associates, a corporation that manufactured antique watercraft and modern spacing yachts. Michael had met him at a party a week before and found him to be a keen observer of Dancy’s social scene.
“David, please sit down.”
David smiled and slid into an empty seat, then poured himself a glass of spiced wine from the pitcher sitting on a low table. “Cheers,” he said.
Wordlessly, Michael held out his own glass for a
re-fill. “I was thinking of buying a racing cheetah,” he said, “but I’m starting to have second thoughts.”
“I would advise against it,” David said. “It’s an expensive occupation and very few are successful at it. Those who are, know what they’re doing.”
Michael shrugged. “You’re probably right. Perhaps not a hobby for a dilettante.”
By now, the sand had been raked smooth and the next race was about to start. “I’ve put a hundred credits on Red Fang,” David said.
The starting gate snapped open and seven big cats raced out, their riders clinging to the reins. David leaned forward and stared at the track, lips parted, his breath coming faster. The cheetahs covered ground at an amazing pace, their legs moving like pistons. The race was over in less than a minute. Red Fang came in third.
David sat back in his seat. “Damn,” he said.
Bull by the horns, Michael thought. “Tell me,” he said, “what do you think of Johnathon Prescott Jones?”
“Pleasant enough fellow,” David said. “He throws a nice party. He’s been good for the company. They were adrift for too long.”
“So I’ve heard.” Michael sipped his drink. “I met his nephew recently, before his unfortunate demise.”
David frowned and glanced at him sideways. “Did you?” His voice seemed a trifle guarded, Michael thought.
“Have you ever been to Kodiak?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of it.”
“A winter habitat. Paul Prescott Jones maintained a residence there.”
David frowned. “To each his own. I never liked winter.”
“Apparently, neither did Prescott Jones. His residence included a tropical oasis under a dome.”
“He could have kept the tropics without the dome if he had stayed here.”
“True, but sometimes the urge to get away from the demands of one’s family is overwhelming.” Michael smiled. “Tell me, who were his friends?”
“Why do you ask?” David gave him a curious look.
“He seemed like a rather introverted fellow. He gave a dinner party now and then and he had a mistress or two but he kept to himself, mostly. I wondered.”
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