The Empire of Ruin

by Robert I. Katz

  “Do you remember Admiral Flynn?” Romulus said.

  “Of course. A difficult man.”

  “Colonel Anson was his aide.”

  Well, that did put a different light on things, though truthfully, Michael was not really surprised.

  “We’ll keep an eye on him,” Michael said.

  Peter Westing, Jason Mahoney and a shipload of barely legal drugs.... None of it had any ostensible relationship to the slave trade, and the slave trade, not drug running, was behind the raid on Helios and the attempted armed takeover of Kodiac as well, or at least associated with both operations. It was possible that taking slaves was merely an added bonus, but then, what was the main objective? The slave trade, not smuggling, was Michael’s mission, and of course a conspiracy that may or may not threaten the stability of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind.

  Not that drug running was a minor crime, not at all, but it wasn’t the crime that he had been recruited to investigate.

  “Any known links between Jason Mahoney and Paul Prescott Jones?”

  “None that we’ve been able to determine,” Anson said.

  Peter Westing and his crew had been arrested as soon as the Star Fox landed and the cargo of Blue Ice confiscated. Westing was soon released on bail and holed himself up in his mansion with his much suffering mistress. He did not emerge for two days and when he did, was observed to be pale, trembling and in a foul mood. Surveillance picked up short vid calls to both Jason Mahoney and Alban Costa. The conversations were short, to the point and unhappy.

  Costa, an investment advisor by trade, continued to go about his normal business. To Costa, an occasional loss was merely a part of the game.

  Mahoney, on the other hand, had apparently sunk most of his capital into Peter Westing’s unfortunate venture. The day after Westing’s return, Mahoney got drunk in a bar near the beach and struck a seemingly innocent bystander in the face, who struck him back. The blow was not in itself hard enough to cause significant damage but Mahoney staggered, lost his footing on a wet spot where a drink had spilled on the floor, tripped over a chair and fell across an overturned table, breaking his neck. He died instantly.

  “So much for that lead,” Anson said upon hearing the news.

  Michael grunted.

  Jason Mahoney had been a violent, obnoxious and unpleasant young man. In death, he was unloved and generally un-mourned, but he was related to significant nobility. The funeral was held three days later. Most of Dancy high society felt obligated to make at least a token appearance, which included Luciano Barrad. The Mahoney family, it seemed, were Devotionists and they managed to dig up a bishop to preside over the ceremony. Michael was surprised to find an actual bishop on the planet, but the man knew his business and he conducted the liturgy with solemn dignity. Michael sat in the back row and then trooped along with the sizable crowd out into the cemetery, where the doors of the Devlin family crypt were opened, the coffin carried inside by ten pallbearers and placed into its designated niche. The Bishop said a few more perfunctory words. The doors closed and the crowd dispersed to more pleasant entertainments.

  Michael was not surprised to see Johnathon Prescott Jones escorting a sizeable party, one of whom Michael recognized as his sister, Lydia. Lydia Prescott Jones was an imposing woman, tall, with sharp blue eyes and shoulder length auburn hair. Her body, he would have bet, had been sculpted. Breasts that large and firm were not likely to be natural. Her waist also seemed impossibly thin. She was accompanied by two servants, one male and one female, and a large bodyguard.

  The bodyguard had a lot of muscles and a large handgun nestled under his left arm, but he slouched against a railing with his legs crossed, looking bored. A real pro who took the job seriously would have been scanning the crowd, taking nothing for granted. The servants, however, interested him. They were both very young, very good looking, and well dressed. Their eyes were fixed on Lydia Prescott Jones, waiting for an order or a request. The young man refreshed her drink without having to be asked. The woman held a tray of hors d’oeuvres, from which Lydia Prescott Jones would occasionally select a tiny sandwich, a stuffed shrimp or an olive. She never looked at it but the tray was always under her hand when she reached out.

  Michael wandered closer and caught the eye of Johnathon Prescott Jones. “Sir,” he said. “A sad occasion.”

  Johnathon Prescott Jones shrugged. “Sadder for some than for others.”

  Michael looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t been on this world for very long. Such nuances escape me.”

  Prescott Jones gave him a lop-sided grin. “Jason Mahoney will be remembered as a happy, cheerful young man of infinite promise who died much too soon. Society would have it no other way.”

  Michael was suddenly aware of Lydia Prescott Jones standing at his elbow. “Johnathon,” she said, “who is your friend?”

  “Luciano Barrad,” he said, “my sister, Lydia Prescott Jones.”

  Michael bowed. “A pleasure.”

  She nodded. “And what do you do, Mister Barrad?”

  Michael grinned. “I’m fortunate enough to be able to do as I please. Mostly, I travel.”

  The two servants flanked her on both sides, seeming to pay no attention to Michael at all. Their eyes were fixed on Lydia’s face. The bodyguard gave him a brief glance and then let his attention wander away.

  “I also like to travel,” Lydia said. She looked Michael up and down and seemed to approve of what she saw. “Perhaps you might call on me. We could compare notes.”

  Michael smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “I would enjoy that.”

  Chapter 4

  “Who are they?”

  Anson frowned at him. “The bodyguard is listed as Gregory James. One stint in the Navy. He didn’t see any combat and got out as soon as he could. His record is middle of the road and completely undistinguished. The two servants are Lynette Chapman and Jeremy Baylor, from Andover. Both their parents are farmers.”

  Andover was a placid world of mild winters and moderate summers, with deep seas and fertile soil. Most of its population worked as farmers or fishermen, a comfortable world but not a rich one except for a scattering of nobility who had established estates near the sea.

  “Why are they with Lydia Prescott Jones?”

  “There’s not much about them in the databases. No surprise in that. They’re very young. They’re neither rich, well-educated nor important.” Anson shrugged. “We know that she travels extensively. She brought them back with her after a trip approximately three years ago. They’ve been in her employ ever since.”

  “They interest me,” Michael said.

  Anson looked at him and frowned. “Why?”

  “Because they never left her side, not even for an instant.” Michael gave a mirthless grin. “Did you notice that? Such devotion is unusual. They never strayed further than the length of a leash.”

  “This seat taken?”

  The bodyguard looked up at Michael, sipped his beer and shrugged. “There are plenty of open tables,” he said.

  The pub was cool, quiet and dimly lit, a pleasant, comfortable place for a man to enjoy a cold drink after work. Holotanks near the ceiling displayed an assortment of sporting events. The booths were dark wood with padded benches.

  “True,” Michael said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Gregory James looked up at him without much interest. He shrugged. Michael sat down. “I met your employer the other day, at Jason Mahoney’s funeral.”

  Gregory James sipped his beer and said nothing.

  “She likes to travel,” Michael said. “So do I. It seems that she and I have a lot in common. Do you go with her on her trips?”

  Gregory James pursed his lips and gave Michael a brooding look over the top of his glass. “Take a hike,” he said.

  “Don’t be so hasty. She invited me to call on her.” Michael sat back in his seat and signaled to a waitress, who came over immediately. “Beer,” Michael said. “Whatever he’s havi
ng.”

  “So,” Michael said, “where was I? Oh, yes. I’ve been invited to call on Lydia Prescott Jones. I expect that she and I are going to be good friends.” He smiled. “Very good friends, indeed. I thought you could tell me a little bit about her.”

  “That would be unprofessional,” Gregory James said. “Betraying the confidence of my employer.”

  Michael nodded. “Good to know that the loyal help can be counted on. Does she pay well?”

  “Well enough.”

  “You ever have to use that gun?”

  Gregory James’ lips twitched. “Not recently.”

  “So, without betraying any confidences, what is she like?”

  Gregory James drew a deep breath. “Are you rich?” he said.

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  “Then you can forget it.”

  That was surprising. “Really?”

  “Really. She’s a hundred fifty-three years old. She’s been married four times and has five kids. All of her kids have kids, and their kids do, too. She’s very, very rich and she has no interest at all in a man that might be able to compete with her. She prefers the poor ones, the ones that can’t give her an argument.”

  “Like you?”

  Gregory James nodded. “Absolutely. She’s the boss. I’m the hired help. I know it, and that’s it.” He frowned. “One of the guards tried once to get close to her. The idiot thought he was so hot that no woman could resist him. He actually thought he was being subtle about it. He gave it time, tried to work up to it, paid her little compliments, held her coat when she went out, opened the door for her, that sort of thing. One day, he was gone. I ran into him a couple of months later. He never did anything too obvious, though all in all, it was pretty obvious. She just cut him loose. Not something she felt like dealing with. I’m not going to make the same mistake.”

  “So, who does she spend time with?”

  “The kids, mostly.”

  “Kids? Her own kids?”

  Gregory James laughed softly. “No. Her own kids have been out of the house for a hundred years. She sees them now and then on social occasions, holidays mostly. No, I mean the two kids. You must have seen them. They stay close.”

  “Yes,” Michael said slowly. “I saw them.”

  “Her property is screened,” Anson said. “She has a large swarm of microbots patrolling the grounds. They’re not obvious but everything that crosses the perimeter is identified and catalogued. They would pick up the usual type of biomech or mini-drone as soon as it got close.”

  Michael frowned, considering. “Is that typical for this world?”

  “No, it’s definitely more security than most.”

  “So, what is she hiding?”

  Anson shrugged.

  “Try the burrowers,” Michael said.

  Anson gave a reluctant smile. “Nice little devices,” he said. “Where did you get them?”

  None of your business, Michael thought. He smiled in return. “They’re from a galaxy far, far away.”

  “Huh,” Anson said.

  The burrowers were minibots equipped with titanium jaws and rotary bodies. As their name indicated, they burrowed beneath the Earth, turning like a screw, ejecting chewed up dirt behind them.

  Lydia Prescott Jones lived in a very large house surrounded by green lawns and spacious gardens. Across a paved road outside the wall enclosing her estate was a public park. A work crew came by every few days to clip the hedges and mow the grass in the park. One of the crew accidently dropped a carry bag. Ten burrowers exited the bag, dug into the Earth and vanished. The worker picked up the bag.

  Over the next few hours, the swarm of burrowers crept beneath the street, then under the lawn and spread out beneath Lydia Prescott Jones’ home. They burrowed upward. As they neared the concrete foundation, all of them stopped abruptly, their electronics shorted out by a confined electrical stasis field.

  “Lydia Prescott Jones does value her privacy,” Andrew Sloane said. Andrew had completed his metamorphosis weeks before. He was nearly two meters tall, dark haired with a strong jaw and deep blue eyes that seemed to hold a gleam of perpetual amusement. Marissa Oliver, quietly listening, remained impassive.

  Anson frowned. Michael shook his head. “I think that it’s time for Luciano Barrad to pay a social call on Lydia Prescott Jones.”

  Chapter 5

  Michael sent a text with a suggested time and date to Lydia’s private server, which was acknowledged and accepted. He arrived at the designated time, accompanied by Curly and Gloriosa. Lydia Prescott Jones went nowhere without her retinue. Michael felt that it might be wise to bring an entourage of his own. Curly carried a gun in a holster under his arm. By now, he was proficient in its use. He wore loose black slacks and a short sleeved black shirt that showed off his muscular arms. His beard was neatly trimmed, his bald head gleaming. He looked dangerous. He was. Gloriosa wore a red dress with a sheer, draped front that allowed the sides of her tanned breasts to peek out at unexpected intervals.

  Lydia Prescott Jones received him in the garden, under the shade of a spreading baobab tree. A filigree, wrought iron table sat on the grass under the tree. A pitcher filled with a pinkish, iced drink and two glasses sat on the table. Lydia Prescott Jones’ glass was already filled. Gregory James was nowhere to be seen. Lynette Chapman and Jeremy Baylor stood behind Lydia’s chair. Curly took up a guard position perhaps six meters away. Gloriosa stood behind Michael as he sat.

  “Punch?” Lydia asked.

  Despite the shade, the day was hot, the sun shining brightly overhead. “Please,” Michael said.

  She poured it herself, handed Michael the glass and waited while he sipped. The taste was sweet, tart and mildly alcoholic. There was another faint, underlying taste. He didn’t recognize the exact substance but he had come across analogues in the past that were mildly hallucinogenic and designed to lower inhibitions. He shrugged and drank it down. Might as well see where this was going. His increased metabolism would make short work of the drug.

  “This is very good,” he said. “A native fruit?”

  “Yes, from the Southern islands.”

  Lydia Prescott Jones drank deeply from her own glass and smiled innocently in Michael’s direction. Michael allowed his eyes to roam around the garden. “A beautiful place,” he said. “Have you always lived here?”

  She nodded, her eyes gleaming. “The estate has been in my family for over two centuries.”

  “And when the government moves back to Reliance?”

  “I travel for part of the time. The rest…well, Dancy is always busy. It’s a pleasant world no matter the season and people enjoy the water and the beaches.” She smiled. “Costs are lower in the off-seasons, as well.”

  Michael stared down into the glass. He wrinkled his brow. “Costs…”

  “Yes,” she said. “Not that I need to worry overmuch about the costs. Still, it doesn’t do to waste money. Every season has its charms. I don’t mind that things are a bit more quiet for much of the year.”

  He drew a deep breath and slumped back in his chair. “No,” he said.

  Curly kept his face impassive. Gloriosa looked at Michael and frowned but continued to stand quietly behind and to the side of his chair. Lydia gave him a bright, reptilian smile. “So tell me, Luciano Barrad, what is your real name?”

  He gave her a wide smile. “Luciano.” He slurred the word. “Barrad…”

  “Is it? That surprises me. You see, almost seventy years ago, another man calling himself Luciano Barrad spent some time here. You look nothing like him at all.”

  He peered at her, his face slack. “My uncle.” He said the words very slowly.

  “Hmm,” she said. “So then, Luciano Barrad, why are you here?”

  His head lolled back on his shoulders. Curly peered at him, his face tightening. Gloriosa made a small sound of distress. Lydia looked at them and frowned. “Perhaps we should speak privately,” she said. “Why don’t you tell your people to take a lit
tle walk around the gardens, yes?”

  Michael waved a hand in Curly’s direction. He smiled at Gloriosa. “That’s a nice idea,” he muttered. “Private.”

  “And here, take another sip of your drink. It’s really very hot, today.” She held his glass up to his lips and Michael sipped, then gave her a bleary smile.

  Curly shook his head but he and Gloriosa reluctantly walked away together. Michael peered up at Lynette and Jeremy, who had stood unmoving during the entire conversation. “How ‘bout them?”

  “Oh, they can stay. They would never dream of betraying my confidence.” She laughed softly.

  “So,” she said again. “Why are you really here?”

  He looked up at her, squinting against the sunlight and let a soft, vacant smile play around his lips. “Money,” he said. “I need money.” He gave her a worried frown and leaned forward, whispering, “I’m not as rich as I seem.” He giggled, then slumped down in his seat and hung his head.

  She sat back, sipped her drink and gave him a wide, startled, speculative smile. “Perhaps I can help with that,” she finally said.

  “On the surface,” Henrik Anson said, “you are very rich indeed. If they dig deeper, and we can certainly assume that they will now dig deeper, they will find that the ship has a lien against it, that your estate on Lyon is mortgaged and that your investments in several recent start-ups have crashed. You’re not exactly bankrupt since your dividends are still being paid but your cash flow is insufficient to cover your current expenses.” He pursed his lips. “Unless something happens to change things soon, Luciano Barrad is about to descend into the depths of the genteel middle class.” He paused and smiled. “Lower middle class.”

  “Good,” Michael said. “The bait is out there. If Lydia Prescott Jones can be believed, somebody will be making me an offer.”

  Chapter 6

  He went to a casino that evening, accompanied by Gloriosa, Richard Norlin and Andrew Sloane. Richard and Andrew, like Curly, both looked the part of personal security. They were big and broad shouldered, with sharp eyes, and both carried guns under their arms. Gloriosa by now was practiced in playing the part of the attentive mistress, though she had made it clear to Michael that she would be more than willing to play the part for real.