The Queen of Sidonia

by Richard Fox

  Medics and workers in their light green scrub suits put their backs to the wall as he passed. Stolzoff always moved with a purpose, and everyone but the royal family knew to stay the hell out of his way.

  Stolzoff glanced at the placard outside of a treatment room, noted the name of the patient, and entered without knocking.

  He found Warrant Officer Remi wearing his matte-black mail body glove, and the rest of his uniform—tunic, trousers and sash—were laid out neatly on a hospital bed. Remi snapped to his feet and saluted Stolzoff. Stolzoff returned the salute with a shake of his head. Remi, a powerfully built man in his early twenties, had an aura of strength and vitality that Stolzoff envied. He’d been young once, many years ago.

  “Patients don’t need to salute while under treatment,” Stolzoff said.

  “Just a flesh wound, sir,” Remi said. “The droid surgeon stitched me back together and gave me two liters of synthetic blood to top me off. Good as new.”

  “Has a human doctor signed off on that diagnosis?”

  Remi shrugged. “She said something about resting for a few days. I’ve had worse, no reason I can’t stand a watch.”

  Stolzoff placed a case on the bed and opened it. He took a silver-colored dart bigger than his thumb out of the case and held it up to Remi.

  “They dug one of these out of your…upper thigh, let’s call it. Missed an artery by a hair. Know what it is?”

  Remi took the dart and tested the weight.

  “It’s heavy, tungsten?” Remi asked. Stolzoff nodded. “This could hit hard without moving that fast. You think it’s designed to bypass body shields?”

  “Given that four of these were fired at Princess Cosima, yes, I’m certain they were designed to bypass her shield. The explosion could have killed her even with the shield, but the shaped charge went through the front of the car instead of right beneath her. The shield drained protecting her from the blast and enough hits from these darts would have penetrated, same as they did with your gauntlet.”

  “We’re dealing with a professional killer, aren’t we?” Remi asked. “He knew exactly how to hit her.”

  “Might be a ‘they,’ we’re still working the scene reconstruction at headquarters. But we’re going on the hypothesis that this is the work of one or more professionals until we have evidence otherwise.” Stolzoff took a gauntlet from the case and handed it to Remi.

  The gauntlet looked like a fingerless glove that would run almost to Remi’s elbow. Remi slid it up his left arm and it tightened automatically. His fingers danced over a holo panel projected from his forearm.

  “Voice print, Remi, Paul,” he said.

  “Voice print accepted,” came from the gauntlet.

  “The attempt on the princess was a surprise, but it shouldn’t have been. She became a target the moment Prince Francis returned from New Chosun with news of the treaty,” Stolzoff said. “Francis’s transport was the first ship in the system for weeks. The hit team must have been here before that.”

  “Someone doesn’t want the treaty signed, someone with a lot of resources,” Remi said.

  “As such, Prince Vincent wants you on Cosima’s detail until further notice.”

  Remi didn’t move for a moment, then frowned.

  “I thought you had the new girl on her detail, another spacer from House Zollern.”

  “We did, but she’s new, untested. Vincent trusts you more than anyone in the Guard, so you’re on Cosima’s watch.”

  “Sir, I broke protocol, ran off and got that kid out of the way of her car. I should be disciplined for that, not put on something so important.”

  “Paul,” Stolzoff put his hand on Remi’s shoulder, “you’re human. You saw a child in danger, and you did what you could to help. If you hadn’t, you would’ve been right next to the blast and I’d be planning your funeral. Your instincts saved you…and her. Besides, what have I always said about protocol?”

  “‘Protocol is great, until someone beats you to death with your own playbook,’” Remi said.

  “Go to Cosima’s quarters. We have some progress on tracking down the shooter, and she could use some good news.”

  ****

  “Not one more minute!” Cosima punctuated her statement by slamming an armful of clothes into a suitcase. She turned and stalked back to her closet, her fists balled in rage. The walk back to her closet took time. Her quarters were high in the residence tower and took up a third of an entire level. The room afforded a view of the west of the capital, where the setting sun lit low clouds with red and orange, as if they were slowly burning in the sky. Lights populated the distant towers in the city, mimicking the emerging stars in the twilight.

  “My lady, the danger has passed, I’m sure of it.” Lana scooped the clothes out of the suitcase and followed Cosima back to the closet.

  “Oh, that’s so reassuring.” Cosima swiped a dress encrusted with onyx and pale garnets from its hanger and carried it to the suitcase. “Just go down to the capital, marry the next king, and—oh by the way, there are a bunch of people waiting to kill you.” Cosima waved her arms in the air. “Have fun!”

  Lana shook her head and returned clothes to their hangers. “It isn’t like that.”

  “How do you know?” Cosima’s voice cracked.

  Lana kept her face down as she reached into the suitcase. Cosima grabbed the suitcase and flung it off the bed, clothes and jewelry scattering across the floor. Lana sighed and bent over to clean up the new mess.

  “I’m dirt side for not even an hour and look what’s happened to me.” Cosima crossed her arms and sulked. “You don’t know anything,” she spat. “You don’t…wait.”

  Cosima went to her door and yanked it open. She stuck her head into the hallway and saw Remi standing across from the door.

  “You. Meathead. Get in here,” Cosima said, wiggling a finger at Remi.

  “My lady,” Remi said. He entered the room and stood with his back to the wall adjacent to the doorway.

  “What happened out there? Who tried to kill me and when can I-I-I get his head on a spike? We do that, right?”

  “The kingdom uses hanging for death sentences,” Remi said.

  “Whatever. Have you caught the person you’re going to hang?”

  “The city went on lockdown immediately after the attack. Whoever did it is within reach. The city’s police force and the King’s Guard are closing in on a lead as we speak,” Remi said.

  Cosima paced back and forth, chewing on a fingernail.

  “So he’s still out there?” she asked.

  “For now, but you’re safe here.”

  Cosima gave Remi a dirty look. “I bet you would have said that the moment I got off my shuttle too.”

  “The attempt on your life took place where you were in the open: visible and vulnerable. Here, you are surrounded by the best-trained soldiers in the kingdom and by the best security systems the king can acquire,” Remi said.

  “If you’re so great, then how did that bomb…?” Cosima trailed off, then sat down heavily on her bed. “My god, it was a bomb,” she buried her head in her hands and sobbed, “a bomb right underneath me, then they tried to shoot me.”

  Lana got up and wrapped an arm over Cosima’s shoulders.

  “I mean,” Cosima wiped her sleeves over her eyes, “do you know what it’s like to get shot at?” she asked Remi.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Were you a mess like me afterward?”

  “No. But I was trained, armed, and expecting to get shot at. Even then, it isn’t easy to deal with.”

  Cosima pushed Lana away and stuck a finger in her chest.

  “I’m going home. Now,” she said, her eyes wide with desperation. “Get me a shuttle.”

  “My lady, this is your home now,” Lana said quietly.

  Cosima groaned and shot off the bed. She stopped at the window and peered into the darkening sky. Styria Station had just crested the horizon, the haze of atmosphere dimming her view, fading like an
old memory. Cosima put her hand out and touched the glass, covering her view of the station.

  “Why can’t I just go home?”

  Lana cleared her throat and looked at Remi. The guard took the hint and left the room. She got on her hands and knees and picked up little pieces of jewelry from the floor. Earrings and brooches went into a cupped hand.

  A few minutes later, Cosima joined Lana on the floor, picking up after the mess she’d made. “I’m sorry, Lana. I’ve been such a brat.”

  “I would never say that, my lady.”

  “Oh you might not say it.” Cosima picked up a bracelet and slipped it onto her wrist. “But I can see you thinking all those ‘she’s a brat’ thoughts.”

  “This is a lot for you. You find out you’re getting married—to Prince Francis, no less—you move off the station, someone tries to…hurt you,” Lana said.

  Cosima sat back, her legs bent beneath her. “And where is Francis? He doesn’t care enough to check up on me after all this?”

  “I’m sure he’s locked away in a secure room until the threat is gone,” Lana said, her tone rushed and uncertain.

  “And what about my sister? Why isn’t Theresa here with us?”

  “She’s in Sidonia City. The tubes into the capital are down until the assassin is caught, so we should see her soon.”

  Cosima stood up and frowned. “I’m sure she’ll be so happy about all this. Father picked me over her, the older and prettier one, to marry the prince.” She sighed. “As if things couldn’t get any worse.”

  ****

  Jerrum looked at the headline on his data slate and flung the device against the wall. The two assassins standing across from his desk didn’t flinch as the slate shattered. The pair was in their base setting, their faces blank slates with the barest hint of features on their bald heads. Carter’s vaguely feminine shape distinguished her from Glint.

  “She’s alive, and unharmed,” Jerrum growled. He glared at his fellows, disgusted with them and with himself. He’d paid a fortune for their augmentation and enhancement, and they’d failed in a simple mission.

  “I thought I hit her,” Carter said, her voice modulating between a dozen different tones.

  “We’re getting paid for results, not honest efforts,” Jerrum said.

  Glint reached out and touched a microphone on the desktop. “The King’s Guard will accept our patsy.” Glint’s words came through a machine, their inflection flat and wrong. Glint didn’t breathe; augmented gills on his body extracted oxygen from the air to feed his bloodstream. Not breathing meant not speaking. “Another public opportunity will present itself. We can accomplish the mission at any time, even if we forfeit the bonus.”

  “No, I’ve lost my access,” Carter said. “Stolzoff has everything locked down tight, and he’s changed up the routines, work schedules. No one has more than a few hours’ notice of where they’ll be posted.”

  “Smart old fart, isn’t he?” Jerrum said.

  “He was part of New Warsaw’s militia when Aquitaine Interstellar made one of their corporate takeovers of the local government. He is more security conscious than we’d anticipated,” Carter said. “Our implant into the palace’s communications system is worthless. All his assignment orders are done face to face.”

  Jerrum waved his hand over the desk. A holo of Cosima’s face, captured during her arrival ceremony, sprang up.

  “We have two days until our employer arrives. He’s expecting a dead princess and a grieving planet. I can’t change my face like you two, so consider me motivated to avoid pissing him off,” Jerrum said.

  “The patient hunter always gets its prey,” Glint said.

  CHAPTER 3

  Their target building looked inauspicious enough, a five-story apartment complex connected to a civil-engineering substation on one side and another apartment block on the other. The suspect lived on the first floor, which made Stolzoff’s job that much harder.

  Stolzoff bought a kebab from a stall across the street from where the only identified bombing suspect lived, and moved onto the sidewalk. The spiced lamb wrapped in flatbread smelled delicious, but this wasn’t the time to eat. If the suspect was watching the street, Stolzoff would have to act perfectly natural to get close. Glowering at the target building while speaking into his wristwatch would set off alarm bells and a more lethal reaction.

  An anonymous tip had identified the man living in the building as the one responsible for the bombing. The message had come peppered with details of the attack not released to the public, which made that tip stand out from the half-dozen crank calls from attention seekers and the mentally deluded.

  The man at this address, Sturm Hedelson, was already on Stolzoff’s radar for his heated rhetoric against the royal family. Criticism wasn’t a crime on Sidonia, but out and out threats were. Hedelson hadn’t crossed that line, not until this morning.

  The chief of the royal family’s security glanced at his forearm holo projection. The location of pairs of agents in civilian clothes formed two rings around their target, uniformed police beyond them. If the suspect tried to run, he wouldn’t get far.

  Stolzoff crossed the street and tossed his kebab aside.

  “Breach team, go!”

  A pair of men standing next to the open trunk of a ground car shrugged off their coats, revealing deep blue uniform jerkins over black mail body suits. They hefted a metal tube from the trunk and ran into the target building.

  Stolzoff flipped his hat off and pulled his pistol from inside his jacket. He ran in after the breach team and saw them slam the ram into an apartment door. The door shuddered but didn’t give way.

  Two more uniformed officers flanked the breach team, their weapons out and ready.

  The ram slammed into the door again, and the door shimmered as ripples of static emanated from the impact point.

  “It’s shielded,” one of the breach men said, adding a string of expletives to his observation.

  “Move,” Stolzoff said. He reached behind his back and pulled a disk off his belt. The police saw the device in his hand and scrambled away from the door.

  He held the device up to his lips. “Inversion, cancel safety protocol.”

  “Safety protocol canceled,” a pleasant woman’s voice said from the disk.

  Stolzoff tossed the disk at the door, and it snapped against the wooden frame. Beeps came from the disk, growing closer and closer until they became a single whine.

  Stolzoff activated his gauntlet shield and widened the pale green energy field so it was large enough to cover his entire body. He braced himself against the floor.

  The energy field blocking the door snapped and popped like a live wire. It blew the door clean off its hinges and sent it hurtling into the apartment. Stolzoff dialed back his shield and charged into the apartment, pulser aimed over the lip of the shield.

  Turning a shielded door into an improvised breaching charge was an effective way to enter a building, but not so great if you wanted to interrogate anyone standing behind the door.

  “King’s Guard! Search warrant!” he shouted as he charged into the apartment.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell. The air was rank with ammonia so thick that his eyes stung. Police rushed in behind him, coughing in the bad air.

  Stolzoff kicked in the first door in the hallway and swept his pistol across the room. The floor was covered in torn paparazzi magazines, and the walls were covered with pictures of the royal family. Lengths of string ran from tacks in each member’s forehead from picture to picture. Hundreds of years of royal bloodlines were on the wall, from King Ehrhardt, the first ruler of Sidonia, to the current king, Rasczak. The pictures of the king and Princes Francis and Vincent had the word TRAITOR! written across their faces.

  “Hands! Show me your hands!” shouted one of the police.

  Stolzoff went back into the hallway and ran to the sound of the shouts.

  In the apartment’s living room was a bank of holo screens, each carrying
a different news feed. A policeman stood next to a high-backed chair in front of the holos, shaking his head. The officer holstered his pistol.

  “Sorry, sir,” the officer said and held up a hand to cover his nose. He swiveled the chair around.

  Sturm Hedelson was in the chair, his head cocked to the side against his shoulder, face blue, eyes slack. An open pill jar lay clenched in a rigid grip. Hedelson looked like he’d been dead for hours.

  Stolzoff lowered his weapon and leaned over to examine the pills in Hedelson’s hands. A cartoon cat’s face was on the label, not a prescription. He knew the brand, a rogue laboratory that had poisoned the streets with opiates years ago. Stolzoff would bet a month’s pay that Hedelson had filled his stomach with thebaine pills to avoid arrest. A four-sided crossbow lay at his feet under the desk.

  “Sir, you’ll want to see this,” another police officer said.

  The kitchen had a mound of small white spheres in an aluminum bowl meant to hold dinner salads. A mortar and pestle, stained with white dust, lay on the table next to the bowl. A hole in the floor next to the wall was wide enough for a man to slip into. The smell of a sewer wafted into the kitchen and mingled with the reek of ammonia.

  “What do you think, sir?”

  “Ammonia fertilizer, crushed and combined with an oxidizer to make an explosive compound. Access way into the sewer system where he rigged up a shaped charge under Richthofen Avenue. We’ve got the bolt launcher,” Stolzoff said. He chewed on the inside of his lip, unsure of his assessment.

  “Pretty open and shut,” a policeman said.

  “How the hell did nobody complain about this smell?” asked another cop.

  Stolzoff pointed to a fan installed in the kitchen wall.

  “Must have shorted it out when we came in,” Stolzoff said. “My guess is there’s a filter unit on the other side of the fan. All right, have everything sent to my headquarters for analysis in case we missed anything. Like you said, looks pretty open and shut.”

  He tapped out a quick update to the surrounding officers, then sent an encrypted message to his executive officer, Major Volenz.