The Empire of Ruin

by Robert I. Katz

  “I didn’t know him all that well. From what I recall, he was close to his sister, and he spent a lot of time with George Seferis and…”—a faraway look crept over David’s face—“what was his name? Oh, yes: Peter Westing, and also Raleigh Gaines.” David frowned. “None of them have done much with their lives, but then, they’re rich, so they don’t need to.”

  “No,” Michael said with a satisfied smile. “I suppose not.”

  Chapter 2

  A search through the planetary web revealed that George Seferis and Raleigh Gaines had indeed done very little with their lives. Neither had a career of any sort, spending most of their time at parties and sporting events with a rotating assortment of girlfriends and boyfriends. Both lived off of sizeable trust funds. Neither was stupid, however. They gambled occasionally but kept their losses small. They spent a lot but never exceeded the earnings generated by their capital.

  Peter Westing lived a bit differently. Like the others, he had inherited money. He used a large percentage of it to purchase a ship of his own and vanished for two to three months at a time, at least once each year. When at home, he lived well but not ostentatiously. He had never married but maintained a mistress on a long term contract, who had borne him a son and a daughter. In addition to the mistress, he was often seen in the company of other women, but never for more than a few weeks at a time.

  Lydia Prescott Jones, the older sister of Paul Prescott Jones, also travelled extensively, not at all unusual for those who had the money to do so, in an Empire of over five hundred worlds. Unlike Peter Westing, she travelled in luxury on the largest cruise ships, all of which had clearly defined routes and schedules.

  “Westing,” Curly said. “Definitely Westing.”

  Anson, who had made no secret of his disdain for Michael’s crew, gave a little sniff. Anson and his men were professionals. The others, in Anson’s estimation, were amateurs. For the moment, Michael tolerated but ignored his opinion.

  Matthew Oliver gave Anson a quizzical glance. His sister sniffed. Anson ignored them both.

  “You know what to do,” Michael said.

  Anson gave a slight smile and nodded. “Of course.”

  The next day, twenty small wasps flew a wandering course toward the principal residence of Peter Westing. Upon arrival, all twenty sought out burrows under the eaves of the mansion, Over the next eight hours, four were eaten by lizards and one by a large spider. The others found cracks in the stucco and two tiny openings where the front door did not quite meet the jamb. They entered the building, flew to the tops of dressers and cabinets and in one case, a closet shelf, and did as they were programmed. Every evening, they uploaded their collected data into the planetary web.

  For two days, aside from an assorted variety of unusual and entertaining sexual practices, neither Peter Westing nor the mistress, whose name was Melissa Ngoro, did anything suspicious. On the evening of the third day, Peter Westing took a call. The video was blanked but the voice was clearly audible. “Ophelia.” It was a male voice, deep and strangely accented. “The city of New Rome. The address is 302 Regency Terrace. The delivery will be made in exactly ten days.”

  “Excellent,” Peter Westing said. “I’ll be there.”

  Over the next two days, deprived of food and water, the wasps all died but the microscopic recorders that they had carried continued to work for another three days, until their power supply was finally exhausted. Nothing else of any interest was overheard. By this time, Peter Westing’s ship, the Star Fox, had left the planet, with the London following in its wake.

  “Ophelia is ten light years from Dancy and sixteen from Reliance. It was one of the first planets to join the Second Empire. It’s been settled for thousands of years.” Henrik Anson seemed pleased with himself. They had a destination and a mission. A red dot appeared on the holograph and hovered over a large, square building, one of a series of similar buildings that rose next to a river lined with piers and docks. The river ran placidly out into a large bay with a deep water mooring. “302 Regency Terrace is listed as a warehouse. My men are walking a rotating patrol around the neighborhood. So far, they’ve seen nothing suspicious.” Anson glanced almost unconsciously down at his interface. The enormous red sun of Ophelia had settled beneath the horizon nearly an hour before. “The ten days will be up at twenty minutes past midnight, tonight.”

  The Star Fox had landed three days before, the London a few hours after. Peter Westing had checked into a suite in a high rise hotel on the edge of the harbor. His crew were given much less luxurious rooms on the floor below. Two women from New Rome’s most exclusive escort agency showed up a few hours later. None of the party had emerged since their arrival.

  In addition to the roving patrols, Anson had men stationed on two rooftops with a view of the building, fifteen tiny drones surveying the neighborhood and five armored cars parked on the streets surrounding 302 Regency Terrace. One hundred bio-mechs, a weevil species native to Ophelia this time, had flown toward the building, made their way inside, and were recording all activity.

  Dustin Nye, the Sergeant in charge of the Illyrian mercenaries, had offered to participate in the patrols. Anson had curtly turned him down. Dustin had given a small shrug and accepted Anson’s decision with seeming equanimity. Michael had chosen not to interfere.

  At two hours before midnight, the tired looking escorts finally left. At five minutes after midnight, three armored cars carrying Peter Westing and six of his crew left the hotel and drove toward the warehouse. They were followed on all sides by Anson’s men.

  An hour before, the bio-mechs had recorded three all-terrain vehicles driving through the open side of the building before closing the folding doors. Ten men emerged from these vehicles and proceeded to unload twelve wooden crates, four for each vehicle, which they lined up together in a corner of the enormous main room. The crates, Michael was relieved to see, were much too small to contain bodies in stasis. Soon after, the doors opened, Peter Westing’s crew drove in and the doors folded down once again.

  “Not exactly what I was expecting,” Michael said. Anson frowned.

  “They may not be doing anything illegal,” Richard Norlin said. “People drop stuff off at warehouses. Other people pick it up. That’s what the place is for.”

  “Depends on what’s in the crates,” Michael said.

  “Open it,” Westing said, as they watched.

  One of Westing’s men took a crowbar and pried the top off the first crate, which he carefully placed to the side. The crate was packed to the top with bags containing a light blue powder. Westing took a bag at random, looked at one of the men who had brought it, standing impassively to the side, then opened the bag and sniffed. A quick little smile crossed his face. “Do I have a volunteer?” he said.

  “I’ll do it.” One of Westing’s men, a skinny little guy, grinned and stepped forward. Westing took a tiny spoon from a pocket, dipped it into the bag and held it out to the skinny guy, who took it and inhaled the powder. Slowly, a wide smile crept across his face. He took a deep breath and his eyes grew distant. He shook his head. “Oh, yeah,” he said.

  Westing frowned at him, then said. “Open the others and count them.”

  Each crate was filled with the same bags of light blue powder. The leader of the men who had brought the crates, tall, broad shouldered and sandy haired, said, “Satisfied?”

  Westing nodded. “Everything appears to be in order.”

  “What is that stuff?” Richard Norlin, watching through the eyes of the drone, asked.

  “Blue ice, presumably,” Anson said. “It’s a unique drug, a narcotic with aphrodisiac properties. Nobody knows where it comes from. It has very little physical effect otherwise but taken in excess, is psychologically addicting.” Anson shook his head. “Presumably a natural product from some world not yet identified. It’s composed of over fifty different alkaloids, very difficult and expensive to synthesize. It’s not illegal but it’s very, very expensive. That shipment is wort
h a fortune.”

  The Empire did not believe in victimless crimes. If somebody wanted to waste their mind and body with foreign chemicals, that was nobody’s business but their own. Michael, who had been consulting his interface, said, “However, it is illegal to import it without declaring the cargo and paying a very stiff tariff. No such shipment has been declared.”

  “So, they’re smuggling,” Curly said.

  Anson nodded.

  “Is it worth the risk? Why don’t they just pay the tariff?” Curly asked.

  “The substance is legal,” Anson said, “but it is disapproved of. The tariff is forty percent, many millions of credits.”

  “If they’re caught, they’ll be fined,” Rosanna said. “Somebody will pay the fine and they’ll all go free.” She shrugged. “Or maybe they’ll spend some time in jail but who cares? This is not what we came here for.”

  Rosanna, Michael noted, seemed outraged, as were Curly and the others. Even Richard Norlin, a slave holder for most of his life, nodded vigorously at Rosanna’s words.

  Anson nodded. “Then we should wait,” he said. “Maybe he’s smuggling more than blue ice.”

  Michael shook his head and reluctantly agreed.

  She was beautiful, with blond hair and deep blue eyes. She appeared to be poised and appeared outwardly calm but Michael could tell that she was frightened, though she tried not to show it. She was also smart, which always made things easier. The local authorities were happy to cooperate with Navy intelligence and now Michael was sitting in an interview room at local police headquarters with Tanya Belling, one of the two escorts who had spent their time in Peter Westing’s suite.

  She looked at him, saying nothing, then frowned down at the table. Michael let the silence grow and after a minute, she cleared her throat and sipped from the cup of water sitting at her side. “Tell me about Peter Westing,” Michael finally said.

  She blinked. “That’s what this is about?”

  Michael said nothing and continued to watch her face.

  She took a deep breath. “What exactly do you want to know?” she said.

  Michael peered down at his interface. “You and Elizabeth Genet arrived on the afternoon of Juno 23rd. You both left three days later. Tell me about your time there.”

  She shrugged. “It was a standard contract. Nothing unusual.”

  “Who did you service?”

  “Peter Westing,” she said.

  “Nobody else?”

  She seemed surprised. “No. That would have been a lot more money.”

  “Both you and Miss Genet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were the three of you always together?”

  “Pretty much. We never left the suite but sometimes one of us might be in another room.”

  “Doing what?”

  She grinned. “Taking a nap, getting something to eat, going to the bathroom.” She gave a small laugh. “Peter enjoyed watching us while we peed. The louder the better. It really turned him on.”

  “Is that unusual in your line of work?”

  “More common than you’d think.”

  Vaguely interesting, Michael thought, but nothing that he needed to know. “What did you talk about?” he asked.

  “Him, mostly. Like a lot of men, his primary topic of conversation is himself.” She gave a faint shrug. “Maybe I’m being too harsh. The point of this business isn’t simply to have sex, though that’s primarily what most of them are interested in; it’s making the client happy, letting him feel that his opinions on the state of the Empire or the local sports team or his wife’s nagging matters. He wants to be appreciated. He wants validation. He wants to be recognized as a human being with wants and needs and dreams. We encourage the client to talk about whatever is on his mind. After all, he’s the one paying the bill.”

  “I was under the impression that Westing isn’t married,” Michael said.

  She frowned at him. “I was speaking in general.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah.” She shrugged.

  “So,” Michael said. “Did he say why he’s here?”

  “Picking up a shipment of something.”

  “A shipment of what, exactly?”

  “That, he didn’t say, not to me at least. Maybe he mentioned it to Liz.”

  Michael leaned back and looked at her. She waited patiently, a serene expression on her face. It occurred to him that she had a lot of practice waiting for men to decide what they wanted to do. He grinned and she raised an eyebrow. “Something funny?”

  “No, not at all.” He leaned forward. “Tell me, did he mention somebody named Paul Prescott Jones?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “How about Johnathon Prescott Jones?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he talk about anybody, anybody at all, other than himself?”

  “He mentioned a couple of business partners, Jason Mahoney and Alban Costa.” She smiled. “He said that they would like me.”

  Michael figured that most men would like her. Being liked was Tanya Belling’s job and she was evidently good at it. “What else did he say about them?”

  Her eyes drifted away as she thought about it. “Just a couple of comments. Mahoney makes him uncomfortable. He’s headstrong and sometimes does things that he later regrets. Costa is reliable. He does what he’s supposed to. He feels comfortable with Costa.”

  “What are these things that make him uncomfortable?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “His mistress. He’s fond of her.”

  “Then why is he spending time with you?”

  She gave him a disbelieving look. “Are you kidding?”

  Michael shrugged. Actually, he was, though he sort of wished that he wasn’t. It was a long time since Michael had cherished any illusions about the myriad quirks of human nature. “Where is he going next?”

  “Back home, or so he said.”

  “Good,” Michael said.

  Chapter 3

  The smugglers were well known to the local authorities. Captain Belloq, of the New Rome Police and Investigative Division clicked his tongue against his teeth as he looked at the recording Michael played for him. “The leader is named Gregory Derosa. He’s not exactly small time but he’s not a major player, either.” He gave a reluctant grin. “Once you leave, we’ll pick him up.”

  Elizabeth Genet proved no more helpful than Tanya Belling and seemed to have just as realistic an attitude toward her chosen profession. “I’m good at the sex. I like sex and I don’t have to fake it—most of the time, anyway. Aside from that, I listen to them and pretend to be interested,” she said. “It’s all a show and a dance. You give them what they want and you take their money. Nobody is harmed and everybody’s happy.

  “Westing is no different than most.” She hesitated. “He gave us both a nice tip. He wasn’t into whips or chains, which we could have dealt with if that’s what the client wanted but we would just as soon not have to. He’s not a bad guy.”

  Maybe not, Michael thought, for a smuggler and drug dealer. He was going to reserve judgment on that point.

  The next day, the Star Fox filed a flight plan with the Ophelia space port and took off, with Dancy as the stated destination. The London followed and a few days later, both ships arrived back at the spaceport of Terra Nova.

  “Westing might have made a mistake taking on Jason Mahoney,” Anson said. The young Mahoney’s juvenile record was impressive, what they could tell of it. Much of it had been sealed by the court. Still, numerous websites had reported details, such as a settlement on the attempted rape charge of a fourteen year old schoolmate and the drunken assault on a much younger boy who had accidently bumped into him on the street. Since attaining his majority, there had been other incidents, all of them hushed up, but the rumors were credible and persisted.

  “Unless Mahoney was an assignment,” Michael said.

  Anson frowned. “What do you m
ean?”

  “Mahoney is well connected. His uncle is Lord Devlin. His aunt is married to the Earl of Flanders.”

  Anson looked doubtful. “You think that Lord Devlin and the Earl of Flanders have something to do with a conspiracy to distribute smuggled narcotics?”

  Michael sighed. “Probably not. However, they both have influence. Sucking up to the nobility might have seemed like a good idea, to somebody, at least.”

  “Maybe,” Anson said.

  It occurred to Michael, not for the first time, that anybody could make a mistake, including himself. He had tried to give Henrik Anson the benefit of the doubt but he just didn’t like the guy. It wasn’t that he didn’t know his job. More that he didn’t fit in with the rest of the crew (if you could call them a crew), and he didn’t try. He kept to himself, or spent his time with his men. He made no attempt to hide his opinions of Curly and Rosanna, and most of all, Gloriosa, which were uniformly dismissive, just a bit less so with Richard, Matthew and Marissa, who were trained fighters and moved with casual grace. His eyes glazed over when any of them spoke and he seemed to casually discount their every suggestion, if he even heard them. Andrew Sloane, he tolerated but mostly ignored. His attitude toward Michael was at least minimally respectful, at least on the surface, but he did tend to argue.

  Frankly, the guy just annoyed him.

  “Colonel Anson has placed microbots in the common room,” Romulus had told him, just the evening before. “Also, on the walls outside all of your personal quarters. These are theoretically able to augment and record any sounds from inside the rooms. I have taken over their programming and I am feeding them false information.”

  “He’s intelligence,” Michael said. “I suppose I would do the same thing in his place. It’s in the blood.”

  “He is supposed to be on your side.”

  Michael shrugged. “There’s politics in every organization, and that certainly includes the military.”