EMPIRE: Imperial Police

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Putcher hands in the air, Ashton,” one of ‘em snarled. “You’re the one goin’ into custody this time. ‘Cept you won’t be gettin’ out of it.”

  “Except in a box,” one of the others snickered.

  Ashton eased into a crouch; if it came to it, he would fight… and it looked like it was coming to it pretty fast. He was badly outnumbered, but he figured he could take a couple with him. Sorry, Cally, he thought. I guess it isn’t gonna happen for us, honey. Stay safe.

  Suddenly fully a dozen black figures emerged from the shadows; four were behind Ashton, the rest completed a circle enclosing the Imperial Police henchmen. Dressed in head-to-toe black unitards, even their faces were covered, though the unitards showed that two were female, and at least three, possibly four, were likely mature males. They spanned the gamut of body types and heights, they were all armed, and they all stepped forward and promptly dropped into a martial arts horse stance.

  “Not if we can help it,” one snarled, voice an odd, electronic neuter, and Ashton realized the full-face hoods held vocal distorters.

  ‘It’s a special suit for nighttime surveillance,’ Ashton suddenly remembered. Aha. I wonder who he recruited to come along with him.

  The lead IPD stooge – who was also the closest – growled and lunged at Ashton with a knife, but Ashton stayed in shape; he was quick and agile, and he dodged easily, executing a downward block with his left hand that knocked the knife well away from his body, and in fact out of the man’s hand. It clattered on the pavement.

  The rest of the black-clad ninjas closed with the IPD flunkies, some moving into position for hand-to-hand combat, others drawing stun weapons.

  “Run, Nick!” one of the female ninjas said to him as she sprinted by him. “We have this!”

  Ashton spun and sprinted for the door of his apartment building.

  Two hours later, three of the flunkies – who turned out to be gang members, responding to a call for Ashton’s head on a platter – were in the custody of the Imperial City Police, oddly enough. Two were in the hospital with various levels of injury, also in custody. One managed to get away, though not without injury; he was bleeding profusely from a split over one eyebrow, and dizzy from what he suspected was a concussion. It didn’t stop him from checking in with the boss.

  “No, Stash,” he told Gorecki in VR, panting as he hid out. “I dunno what you think he is, but that guy had his own set of goons, and they were more and better equipped than us. They beat the shit out of us. They got Gord an’ Pete an’ Bob, outright…”

  “Dead?”

  “Nah. Leastways, I don’t think so. I dunno what became of ‘em, I just know they got ‘em. Bob was knocked loopy but not unconscious, Pete an’ Gord were kinda trussed up – one o’ Ashton’s minions got ‘em with stunners. Manny an’ Scorch were down an’ out. Scorch was bleedin’ everywhere. I’m not sure he’s gonna make it.”

  “And you, Jimmy?”

  “Damn, Stash, one of ‘em took a swing at me, so I hit ‘er inna face,” Jimmy said. “I–”

  “Wait. ‘Her’?”

  “Yeah, there was guys an’ gals in his posse,” Jimmy explained. “An’ damn if the gals didn’t hit as hard as the guys! So I belted one in the face, an’ she staggered back for a second and cussed at me, but before I could even laugh, she turned around and clobbered me in the head. Hard! Twice, even! My jaw feels like it’s half hangin’ off my face, plus I got a split over my left eye where she clocked me, an’ it’s bleedin’ like a stuck pig, so bad I can’t hardly see. But she rang my chimes, an’ I can’t half see straight nohow.”

  “Concussion?”

  “Prob’ly. I’m dizzy as hell.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I made it ‘round the corner to Imperial Park South, an’ I’m about eight blocks in, in the alley offa South Fifty-Third, near Eighth Avenue.”

  “Right. I’ll send somebody there to come take care of you. Just sit tight.”

  “Thanks, Stash,” Jimmy said gratefully. “You’re all right.”

  “Sure I am, Jimmy.”

  The local ICPD precinct found Jimmy’s body there the next morning.

  He had been shot in the back of the head.

  Just once.

  The next morning, when Ashton arrived – as himself, but he also took the most clandestine routes known only to him and his fellows, and nobody came after him this time – several of the Team members were stiff and achy. Even Colonel Peterson was moving a little slowly.

  And Cally had a black eye.

  “Hm,” Ashton said, in a knowing yet thoughtful fashion.

  Then he ordered several dozen doughnuts for the Investigation division break room, and kitchen-sink pizzas – three – for lunch for the entire Team.

  Then he called Adrian Mott and Lee Carter to come over and join them.

  When they showed up, both men had facial bruising.

  Ashton smiled to himself, content.

  “How’d you get the shiner?” Nick asked casually, when Cally came by his place with takeout that night. “You were fine yesterday.”

  “Eh, no big thing,” Cally said, avoiding his glance. “I got up in the night last night to go to the bathroom, thought I could do it without turning on the lights, and ran into the door.”

  “Ouch,” Nick said. “Did you ice it?”

  “Yeah. It’s fine. The nanites are working on it.”

  “Good. After we eat, I’ll get out my ice pack and you can lie down on my couch and ice it. I’ll even sit on the end and hold your head in my lap if you want me to.”

  “That…might be nice,” Cally admitted.

  Nick let it drop then, and set the table for two, as Cally opened the Chinese take-out containers and sat them on the table with serving spoons.

  But afterward, he did indeed sit on the couch with her head in his lap, gently stroking her hair, as she let the ice pack rest on her bruised face.

  It was two more days before anything else went down, which was fortunate for the Team; they were much more spry and agile by that time. And Cally’s black eye had gone through its darkest phase, and Mott had showed her how to cover it with makeup.

  “The latest assignment to come from the Palace is to pick up Gorecki,” Detective Gorski told them, as he, Colonel Peterson, and Nick Ashton debated how best to handle matters. “And I can’t say I blame ‘em. I’ve had enough of that loudmouthed psychopath and his henchmen myself.”

  “What about Wilkins? Wasn’t he the next rung up from Whitmore?” Peterson asked.

  “He was, but according to our sources, he’s gone missing. Probably into hiding. I’ve already informed the Imperial Guard,” Gorski said. “Based on that information, the Throne wants Gorecki.”

  “Mm,” Peterson hummed, thoughtful.

  “You know, if we get Gorecki off the damn streets and in custody, I’m probably safer,” Ashton observed. “He’s their head hobgoblin, after all.”

  “True,” Gorski agreed. “But it won’t be fun. I’m tellin’ ya, picking up Stanley Gorecki is gonna be trouble. We’ve tangled with him before, more ‘n once, in the dives and alleys of the South End. He is a serious, big-time pain in the ass. Never mind just being an ass.”

  “And a complete psycho,” Ashton added. “I think the man enjoys killing.”

  “He does, according to Lee,” Peterson averred.

  “Shit. Pain in the ass, pain in the neck, pain in the…”

  “So?” Peterson interrupted. “Bring plenty of back-up. This has to be done.”

  “You want me to lead that team, too?” Ashton asked.

  “Oh HELL no!” Peterson and Gorski exclaimed in unison. “No way one of the perp’s targets takes down the perp,” Peterson added. “Besides, Lee would have my hide for a lampshade if I let you do that. And deservedly so!”

  “No, I’ll handle this one,” Gorski determined. “You need to stay out of sight. Preferably in a bolt-hole someplace.”

  “You’re taking out the guy who wan
ts my head on a platter to present to Herod,” Ashton said, “and you tell me to stay away? No way in twenty-eight levels of hell. I want to at least be able to see the guy get taken into custody.” He folded his arms, firming his jaw almost truculently.

  Gorski and Peterson glanced at each other.

  And sighed.

  In the end, Ashton had his way…sort of. He sat with Rassmussen in the latter’s sharpshooting covert, there to watch from an out-of-the-way location. They were sitting in an alley across the street from where the team intended to take Gorecki into custody, and were screened from view behind a trash bin. The other police sniper on their team, Jones, waited behind a car nearby with the tranquilizer rifle.

  More, Nick had talked Maia and Stefan into letting him handle the VR suppressor, so he could at least be a functional part of the team, not merely a tagalong.

  They got there bright and early, just in case. Gorecki had been working into the evening for the past week or so, on what, the ICPD didn’t know and hadn’t been able to find out. But they’d been staking out his apartment and his office for nearly a week, and had a good feel for his hours by this time.

  So no one was really surprised when it was mid-morning before Gorecki emerged from his apartment building in the South End to head into work. This was the quietest time of the day in the South End, with the revelers of the night before still in bed, and those with normal jobs already at work. Which was just the way they wanted it, Ashton considered. He triggered the VR suppressor.

  Just then, Armbrand and Ames, wearing ICPD uniforms instead of their usual plainclothes look, stepped forward as Gorecki left the front door of his apartment building.

  “Stanley Gorecki?” the male officer asked.

  “Yeah, what about it?” Gorecki all but snarled. Then he glanced at the other officer, the female – and recognized her.

  Damn, it’s the she-cat bodyguard, he realized. And she actually thinks she’s gonna take me down. I can see it in her eyes. Well, bitch, you got another think comin’.

  “You’re under arrest,” the male officer said then. “Come with me, please.”

  Jones raised his rifle to the ready, loaded with a tranquilizer dart. He targeted the biggest muscles of the body: the thigh and hip.

  Rassmussen also raised his sniper rifle to the ready; it was not loaded with a tranquilizer dart. He targeted the part of the body most likely to drop a perp the fastest, sighting carefully through the ‘scope. Then he waited.

  Gorecki turned and looked behind himself down the sidewalk, using the move in an attempt to hide drawing a pistol from an inside-the-waistband holster in the small of his back as he spun back to the officers.

  This oughta take care of the she-cat and her pal, here, he thought, vindictive. I’ll catch Ashton later and put him down like a dog. Heh. Cat and dog.

  But Ashton saw the move.

  “HE’S GOT A GUN!” he called. “CALLY, GET DOWN! PETE, DUCK!”

  Jones promptly fired a tranquilizer dart; it hit Gorecki in the left thigh, but the big man was already moving, amazingly fast for his size, far faster than the tranquilizer could take effect.

  Gorecki raised his gun, swinging it toward Ames, his intent plain, even as Ames and Armbrand dove for cover, drawing their own weapons.

  Rassmussen fired. The hollow-point bullet smacked Gorecki in the temple, angling back and across the inside of the skull, expanding and spinning as it went, beginning to tumble as it penetrated the bone of the skull. The resulting carnage in both brain tissue and VR nanite networking was severe in the extreme.

  Stanley Gorecki was dead before he hit the ground.

  “Well, that should take care of a few things,” Peterson said that afternoon, as The Team, as Ashton had thought of them long since – Stefan Gorski, himself, Peter Rassmussen, Roger Armbrand, Timothy Jones, Darrell Osborn, Rich Weyand, John Smith, Hugo Weaver, Callista Ames, and Alan Compton – sat in the investigations briefing room. “We have everybody who survived in custody, trussed and delivered to the Imperial Guard, and it’s up to the Throne to take care of ‘em now – those that aren’t already taken care of, I suppose. If you like, I’ll keep the lot of you informed of matters as I hear of ‘em. Or, Stefan, if you hear from the major, you can fill us in.”

  “Right,” Gorski agreed.

  “Now, you’ve all been working pretty steady, including some around-the-clock stuff while you tracked down our perps, so I’m going to let you go home early for a change, and get some rest,” Peterson said with a smile.

  They were too tired to cheer, but they all grinned.

  That night, the Palace was attacked.

  Empress Ilithyia II was presumed dead.

  Ashton stared at the news in his VR feed in horror.

  Getting the Hell Outta Dodge

  “NO!” Lee Carter decreed, as he lay beside Maia Peterson in their bed, and they discussed the horrible events of the day. “Nick was the single most promising, the most straight-laced, new recruit I’ve had come into IPD in years! Hell, watching him is what gave me the renewed backbone to stand up and walk out of that damned place! Do not let that boy be harmed, Maia! Get him offworld immediately! If they got the Empress, they won’t hesitate to take him out, if they can get to him! Especially if the Council gets control of the Throne!”

  “All right, all right, Lee, calm down,” Maia told her newly minted husband; they had quietly tied the knot less than a week before. “I’ll transfer him off Sintar somehow. I don’t know for sure how I can do that without IPD finding out – but I’ll see what I can arrange. I’m sure as hell open to suggestions, though. You got any ideas there?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do,” Lee decided. “See what you think about this…”

  “No,” Maia decreed, sitting up and working out the details. “I’m not gonna wait until in the morning, Lee! Because you’re right. They’re gonna be on the move now, looking to take out all of the loose ends they can find, and Nick is one of those loose ends! For that matter, so are you, so you need to lay low. Again, dammit. We have a plan, here; I’m initiating it now.”

  “All right, honey,” Lee decided. “I can’t say as I can argue with that logic. Go for it, and if I can help you in any way, just yell.”

  Colonel Maia Peterson, Assistant Chief of the Investigations Division of the Imperial City Police Department, was waiting in the classic nondescript VR meeting room when another being popped in.

  Kurt Walder was older, a grizzled veteran police officer in the Catalonia Sector.

  And he was an old friend.

  Of Peterson…and Carter.

  “Kurt,” Peterson said, “I need a favor, and it’s a big one. And it’s not just me asking. Lee Carter is here with me.”

  “Damn,” Walder said, his grizzled eyebrows shooting up. “This is a good one. Let’s hear it.”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Walder said, when Peterson finished explaining. Carter, who had popped into the meeting to provide his input as well, stood silently, waiting and listening.

  “You know I can’t help out there, Kurt,” Carter said then. “Not these days.”

  “No, I get that, Lee, and that’s fine,” Walder said. “I think I can handle this in a…let’s call it a back-door kind of way, here. I’ll get on it as soon as we’re done here. Meanwhile, I think you two need to get moving and contact…Ashton? Nick Ashton, right? That was his name?”

  “Yes,” Peterson confirmed.

  “Okay, call him and get him moving,” Walder declared. “I’ll take care of everything else from here. Oh, and it’s a courier job, just so you two know.”

  “Couriering what?” Peterson wondered, puzzled.

  Walder grinned.

  “Information,” he said.

  “Ah. Done,” Peterson replied, knowing.

  By morning of the next day, Dominick Ashton was already on a transport to Catalonia, along with all of his personal possessions, helped to pack by the complete Team that Gorski had assembled, and which he had led in succe
ssive, and successful, perpetrator apprehensions. And of which, as Gorski pointed out, that made him unequivocally a “big brother.” And they would take care of that brother, no matter what.

  Truthfully, it felt like a punishment of some sort, but Ashton decided that was illogical. After all, he thought, if they can reach the Empress, they’re not gonna stop until they’ve taken me out. I was already in their sights, almost from the time I hit the streets for the first time as a cop.

  He had only just gotten to sleep, after the horror of watching the news feed about the Palace attack, and the reports that the Empress and all her family had perished in the attack, when the emergency call came in from Peterson…and Carter. Within ten minutes, Detective Gorski had arrived with Rassmussen, Armbrand, and several others, including Cally, and the lot had gone around his flat, grabbing his personal items and packing them into transport cases they’d brought with them, while he got dressed. Then they escorted him to the Imperial City Spaceport, refusing to stop – “Police business!” Gorski would bark, if anyone tried to detain the group – until Ashton was on the tarmac, boarding the shuttle to the Imperial Interstellar liner, the IIS Adannaya II.

  The sun had not even risen yet.

  At least they had given him some privacy when he had kissed Cally goodbye.

  One man was on the commuter train to the spaceport when Gorski & Co. boarded it with Ashton. That man was one of Kershaw’s informants, Mark Martin. As soon as he recognized Dominick Ashton, he dropped into VR and sent a high priority message. Within moments, he got a response.

  “Kershaw. That you, Martin?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve spotted Ashton, sir.”

  “Where is he, and what’s he doing?”

  “He’s on the commuter train to the spaceport, being escorted by what look to be plainclothes Imp City police.”

  “Likely they’re taking him off-planet. After a certain successful little event last night, they probably figure he’s a dead man if they don’t. And they’re right.”