by Tom Shepherd
Star Lawyers
Book 3
The Blue King Murders
Tom Shepherd
Book Bag Press
Bookbag Press
Kansas City, MO / Tucson, AZ
Star Lawyers - Book 3
The Blue King Murders
Copyright © 2018 Tom Shepherd
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13:
For all the writers:
Women and Men,
Girls and Boys,
published or un-
Who string words together
for the joy of creativity
and to find out
what happens
next;
Whether read by two dozen
or two million.
God help us,
because we can’t help ourselves.
Previously in Star Lawyers
(Spoiler alert, but only if you haven’t read Books 1 and 2).
It’s the thirty-second century. For one hundred years, the Terran-based Matthews Family labored to build Jump Gate Omega, an instantaneous portal from the Milky Way to Andromeda, 2.5 million light years away.
Although Tyler Noah Matthews IV was the second-born Matthews of this generation, his father, T. Noah Matthews III—the most powerful mogul in the Terran Commonwealth—placed Tyler in command of a legal expedition to the Suryadivan Sacred Protectorate, located along the Outer Arm of the galaxy. Tyler’s task was to save the Matthews Family Legacy Project, now in jeopardy due to lawsuits pending in Suryadivan courts.
Then Tyler learned that the sentient races of Andromeda had followed a universal pact against violence and were incapable of defending themselves against predatory star nations and pirates who would sooner or later cross the intergalactic bridge and bring war to a galaxy at peace for thousands of centuries.
Tyler’s only recourse was to destroy both ends of the Gate system and scuttle the Legacy Project. His father was outraged, but Noah saw the logic in what his younger son had done. He reluctantly agreed to let Tyler and his brother J.B. organize a new independent subsidiary legal firm serving clients beyond Terran Space.
And so Star Lawyers Corp was born.
When their Quirt-Thymean staff attorney, Mr. Blue, disappeared on the eve of battle with a pirate fleet at the Alpha Gate, Tyler had no idea the alien had traded his freedom to save the M-double-I fleet.
Book Three begins as Tyler’s Star Lawyers divide their team to wage courtroom battles on worlds half a galaxy apart. They must defend their friend, Mr. Blue, for murdering the King, and their mischievous Uncle Charlie for seduction and sedition among the matriarchal Meklavites. With Tyler’s penchant for attracting enemies, he’s soon dodging killer robots, fending off insurrectionists, and evading professional dispatchers.
The Star Lawyers adventure continues.
“Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.”
Thomas Merton
One
Quirt-Thyme Empire
Thursday, 14 April 3104
Swirling colors of the Cumberland Tunnel flooded the viewscreens as the starship Patrick Henry hurled Faster-Than-Light toward the homeworld of the remote Quirt-Thyme Empire. Tyler Matthews leaned over his instrument panel and scanned the readouts. To his left on the command bridge, elder brother J.B. reviewed a checklist for transition from FTL to planetary orbit.
“Suzie, do you have a hard lock on the exit point?” Tyler said.
“I bloody told you four times this morning,” his bio-energetic fiancé fired back from inside the Main Library Computer network. “I have the exit point nailed. We aren’t in bed, so quit riding my ass.”
The female bridge officers—working at stations half a level above and aft of the command deck, all former holographic prostitutes, now re-programmed as starship officers—howled until Tyler’s glare shut down their mirth. They resumed in-flight checks and systems monitoring. J.B. chuckled politely, which brought an involuntary half-smile to Tyler.
Who knew my brother, former Catholic monk, would embrace this crew of rehabilitated Rahabs? He flatly rejected a ship full of holo-whores at first encounter. Now, J.B. treats them like Navy Prep graduates. Well, why not? They’ve earned it. Besides, they’re fun to watch. Matthews Corp yellow jumpsuits can’t hide the contours of this bridge crew.
He gave silent thanks that Suzie—who was not a reconfigured courtesan—couldn’t read his mind, even from inside the MLC.
Operating from the single-seat, integrated flight station in the nose, Lieutenant Arabella Maboob—efficient, Lebanese Christian Arab with a Beta personality as the whip-and-leather dominatrix Mistress Arabella—flew the ship as both navigator and helmsman today. Ordinarily, the two jobs would be separate, and the vacant chairs behind her filled by Brahmin-dotted Ensign Parvati at the helm and petite Ensign Myong Li beside her at navigation. Today they assisted Lieutenant Rodney Rooney and Chief León in engineering.
Lieutenant Arabella redirected the discourse back to business. Something she did well. “Sir, incoming messages and telemetry from Quirt-Thyme Flight Central.”
“Flash scan,” Tyler said. “Do I need to respond?”
As a photonic expression of the MLC, Arabella performed the task in less than a quarter second. “Sir, they suggest docking at the Orbital Hub rather than proceeding to starport on the planet’s surface. They’ve provided an approach vector.”
“Any reason why?” J.B. said.
Arabella took a breath. “They say it’s better.”
“Better?,” J.B. said. “Better how?”
Arabella gestured helplessly with both hands. “Let me quote Suzie’s translation of the Pharmaadoodil text. ‘You will feel nice and better if not approaching to land on the hard ground but vectoring to safety within our comfortable and splendid Orbital Hub, where you can eat and play and talk in safety.’”
J.B. and Tyler exchanged frowns. “Fucking Quirt-Thymeans,” Tyler grunted. “Can’t say ‘it’s raining’ without drowning you in words.”
“What do you think?” J.B. leaned toward him.
Tyler pursed his lips. “Did you notice they repeated the word safety?”
“Odd, but not terribly ominous,” J.B. said. “Should we test the water?”
“Yeah, I’m curious.” Tyler touched a colored square on his panel. “Suzie, how long until we drop from FTL?”
“Thirty seconds,” she answered from deep within the computer net.
“Join me on the bridge.”
“Cost you a smooch.”
He laughed. “Get your shapely ass out here.”
Suzie materialized almost instantly, like a Norwegian goddess in a golden jumpsuit. Honey-blonde hair neatly pinned behind her head, she leaned across the armrest of the command chair gave the captain a soft, open-mouth kiss. It didn’t last long, but after she stepped back Tyler squeaked, “Report?”
The bridge rippled with suppressed laughter.
Suzie took the research post located, like the other tech stations, half-level above and behind the captain. “Compared to other large star nations,” Suzie reported, “Matthews Corporation’s information on the Quirt-Thyme Empire is somewhat limited. Exploratory trade missions, notably the Terran Energy Consortium, have contributed a few dozen entries. Plus the occasional article on languages and religions by visiting scholars. We also have a small database on cultural and diplomatic history. Not much else.”
“No wonder,” J.B. said. “Their homeworld is thirty-nine thousand light years from the Terran solar system.”
“I discovered a few files on human expatriates who live out here,” Suzie added. “Maybe refugees, fugitives, or just exophiles. Off the blooming grid, for certain.”
“Long way from home, especially without Jump Gates.” J.B. reviewed his checklist again. “Where’s Rosalie? She’s supposed to be researching the culture.”
“Weapons practice with Julieta.” Tyler sighed. “Three hours a day.”
“We’re approaching the drop,” Lieutenant Arabella said.
“Kick us to black.”
“Dropping from FTL.” She moved her hand to a red square. “In three…two…one.”
“Thank you, God, for safe journeys,” Tyler whispered.
The Patrick Henry shot from the rainbow tornado to black space. Sudden stop, but no inertial dampeners required. The Cumberland Tunnel, as humans called the hyperspace conduit, warped space ahead of journeying starcraft at light-plus velocities while ships remained motionless within its passageway. Tyler often compared FTL travel with driving a surface vehicle onto a ferryboat back on Terra. You cross the distance without moving, so to speak.
He ordered Arabella to engage the Henry’s sublight engines, and they sailed toward the third planet orbiting a yellow star. Tyler felt a jolt in his seat, which seemed to radiate throughout the ship’s superstructure.
“What was that?” He punched the link to engineering. “Paco, what’s going on?”
“Might have hit a residual hyperspace eddy from inbound traffic. That Orbital Hub attracts a lot of visitors.”
“I don’t like bumps in the night. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, Boss.”
He closed the link. “Suzie, what’s the name of the Quirt-Thyme homeworld, and how far to standard orbit?”
“We’re about eighty thousand kilometers from the planet Annistyn-Kloore-Karboonganakoolamakuuloza—Oh, bloody hell. It’s three thousand syllables!”
“Not surprising.” Redhaired Rosalie Matthews breezed into the command bridge and took the cultural officer’s post. Lucy, her blue-green, shape-shifter cat, curled around her feet. “Elongated, compound nouns run rampant through all dialects of Pharmaadoodil. The planetary name means ‘Good Place to Eat, Very Nice Food, You Will Be Happy and Make Friends for Many Good Meals Together.’ It continues by listing traditional cuisine for all six Quirt-Thymean daily meals. All vegetarian.”
“The Quirts ain’t no herbivores,” Tyler grumbled. “Indigo destroyed a stack of meat sandwiches at the Trade Embassy on Suryadivan Prime.”
“The planet’s name originated during an era when Quirt-Thymeans were solidly vegan,” Rosalie said. “Now they eat some forms of animal protein, especially large insects and a list of kosher sea creatures.”
“Kosher?” J.B. said. “I’m guessing that’s a free translation.”
Rosalie nodded. “They’ve also expanded their diet by contact with other species. I’m eager to see what they serve today.”
“Where did you get that?” Suzie said. “I couldn’t find diddley on Quirt culinary history in the M-double-I database.”
“I accessed files from other star nations, especially among the Rim worlds of the Outer Arm,” Rosalie said. “Actually, a good bit of cultural info is available, if you can read a few dozen obscure languages. I prepared a briefing packet. It’s in the MLC under QT Cultural Guidebook.”
“Amazing,” Suzie said. “I’ll follow your leads.”
Tyler checked his low space readouts. “Good transition from FTL.”
“Except for the mysterious bump,” J.B. said.
“You had to remind me.” He swiveled to Suzie’s station. “What’s the name of the Quirt homeworld again?”
“Terran expatriates shorten it to Annistyn,” Suzie said.
“Good Food Place,” Rosalie translated. “It’s a feminine noun.”
“Standard orbit in three minutes,” Lieutenant Arabella said crisply.
Tyler sat back to watch his crew do their jobs. After all that happened during the Patrick Henry’s sojourn to the Suryadivan Sacred Protectorate, he trusted this combined holographic-human team completely.
The viewscreens filled with a blue, Terra-class world laced with white clouds. Annistyn’s physical geography balanced oceans and dry land more evenly than Terra’s water-planet environment. Several landmasses faced each other across narrow seas, and most of the mini-continents were linked by an isthmus. Three currently visible moons crowned the gem-like world, signifying the gods long ago approved Annistyn as the fitting home for an empire that stretched thousands of light years along the galaxy’s Outer Arm.
“That’s one beautiful world,” J.B. whispered.
“More message traffic from Flight Central,” Arabella said.
“Another request to dock at their orbiting station,” Suzie said. “This one—oh, here we go. Communication by hyperbole, just like Mr. Blue. Listen: ‘You will enjoy fruitful feasting and copious coitus of Toorlazimbaa better, because there will be present other Terrans at the Hub, therefore abundant good sex will be on the table.’”
The bridge crew erupted in laughter.
“It again cautions against landing on the planet,” Suzie added.
“Copious coitus?” J.B. said.
“It’s in my briefing packet,” Rosalie said. “The Azules are a complex, ancient culture.” She used her mother’s affectionate term for the QTs, the Spanish word for blue ones. “Social norms quite different from ours.”
Suzie touched her control panel, which instantly connected her to all sensors in the ship. “I have the Imperial Hub on optical, eight hundred kilometers to port. Crikey—they’ve gone full Monty on this bugger.”
“Show us,” J.B. said.
Bridge viewscreens switched from blue planet to the Quirt-Thyme Orbital Hub. It glowed like polished copper in the light of Annistyn’s yellow star. Four gigantic, rectangular pods surrounded a spheroid central base and provided enough docking ports to service a fleet of starships.
“Amazing,” Rosalie said. “I spent a weekend aboard the Orbital Hub at Sagan-2. This sucker is at least ten times bigger.”
“Over twenty kilometers wide,” Suzie said. “Hundreds of hanger spaces for maintenance and repair.”
“Comm traffic suggests diplomatic, technical, and recreational facilities aboard,” Rosalie said. “It’s a city in orbit, Ty.”
Tyler rotated to his sister’s post. “Respond in Pharmaadoodil. Say we appreciate their offer, but we want clearance to land at—what’s the name of their capital city?”
“Chiminda-Garteeza,” Suzie said. “It means Hill of Pleasant Scents, but there are no prominent elevation features within the city. The ex-pats call it Chimi-Gart.”
“Food reference again,” Rosalie explained. “Hill of Pleasant Scents is the national dish of the Quirt-Thymeans. Grilled meats and sweet peppers, piled atop yellow starchy vegetables, topped with cheese sauce.”
“So much for veganism,” Tyler said.
“That actually sounds pretty good,” J.B. said. “Like a bread-free Philly steak.”
“Food preferences notwithstanding,” Tyler said, “tell them we need to speak immediately with our, Mr. Blue—belay that. Suzie, what’s his official title again?”
“His Royal Highness Tertiary Sub-Prince Zenna-Zenn Ringadool-Khelida-LeBokk, Junior.” Suzie whistled. “And that’s the bloody abbreviated form.”
“Do you mind if Rosalie takes over communications?” Tyler said to his fiancé.
“Not at all.” Suzie released the link.
Rosalie touched her console and dropped into the vowel-rich, convoluted world of upper caste Pharmaadoodil, Quirt-Thyme’s major tongue. Neither Tyler nor J.B. knew how many languages their younger sister spoke. Hard study, natural aptitude, plus expensive implants financed by Dad made the twenty-one-year-old a linguistic savant. Only Suzie, as a bio-energetic lifeform linked to the ship’s Main Library Computer, understood more languages. But Rosalie brought diplomatic nuance to bear when interfacing with aliens, a skill no other crew member possessed. She carried an air of sunny, girlish innocence that made it impossible to dislike her.
She was also a stone-cold killer, member of Justicia Pa
ra Todos, the ancient Iberian league of female dispatchers, who could drop an opponent at two hundred meters with a sidearm.
Even after seeing her in action, Tyler still couldn’t believe his sweet baby Sis coolly executed “bad guys” to “thin the herd” of evil-doers at Daddy’s bidding. Their father kept Rosalie’s special skills top secret. Understandably so. If Admiral Bianca Matthews ever learned her daughter’s secret skill set for the Family business included espionage, seduction and homicide, the Matthews children might lose both parents. Father to murder, Mother to prison, execution, or mind-wipe.
Tyler had vowed to limit Rosalie’s duties to cultural and linguistic expertise in support of Star Lawyers missions. But during their first legal-diplomatic encounter among the Suryadivans, his nonviolent intentions for Rosalie fell victim to the violence of others. He hated admitting it, but her skill with a kinetic blaster had saved the home team more than once.
“They said we are welcome to attempt a landing.” Rosalie’s face twisted like she had tasted something sour. “Ty, there’s something wrong. The precise Pharmaadoodil verb used for attempt can’t be translated literally, but the closest Terran paraphrase is to jump on a mousetrap.”
Tyler glanced at Suzie. His blonde fiancé nodded. “I caught that, too.”
“Well, hell.” Tyler scratched his head, above the ear. “They invite us to jump on a mousetrap?’ Might be another weird-ass, broken metaphor. What do you think, Bro?”
J.B. shrugged. “The Quirts are a Terran-friendly people, allies in fact. We just fought a pirate fleet together. Proceed with caution?”
Tyler tapped a key for shipwide announcement. “All hands, prepare for planetfall. Run your checklists. I don’t want any glitches.”
Chief Paco León, the Henry’s maintenance specialist, buzzed from the engine room. “Sir, we got a rattle in the thrusters. I don’t like it. Lieutenant Rooney thinks we got sprayed by micro-hits from that scuffle with pirates at the Alpha Gate.”