Nikkwill waved off the comments. “Very well, Tarkas, you have made your point. I just hope your right, after what happened to...”
There was a knock on the door and a karp opened it. “High Prod, the Emperor-in-waiting Urkus Orkann is here to see you.”
“See His Majesty in,” Nikkwill replied and took a knee, as did Tarkas. With a full security detail in tow the Emperor Urkus Orkann entered, and he was as different from his father as night was from day. There was none of his father’s frailty or weakness. He was a young, strong creature, built like a pogo.
“Rise and sit,” he said with a commanding voice, indicating the comfortable seats in the corner of the office.
“Your Majesty, what brings you to us in person?”
“My coronation is in three hours,” Orkann replied. “I wished to speak to you about matters of security in the wake of last night’s events.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“In light of my father’s death and the state of emergency I have declared, my presentation cannot be the same pompous circumstance it was for my father or grandfather. This is unfortunate, but necessary.”
“I was going to advise the same course of action to you, Your Majesty.”
“Good, then I expect a briefing in person on preliminary security plans tomorrow morning an hour after sunrise. I will see to it you have the arrangements in time.”
Nikkwill was surprised by the sharpness of Orkann but respected it. His father had always missed the same direct attitude, which was reflected in the haphazard way he had run the Empire.
“Second, I feel it goes without saying that my father’s death has revealed serious flaws in the way we handle security. I am aware that you planned the Urkuran as best you could, High Prod, and do not blame you for what happened. I will not add to your guilt, as I am sure what you already feel suffices.”
Nikkwill did not respond. Orkann watched him intensively, trying to study his military commander’s face for telling emotions.
“Changes will be made pertaining to the protection of my family,” he continued after a brief pause. “In addition, there will be a thorough investigation into who perpetrated last night’s attacks. Desecrating the Urkuran and murdering the Emperor cannot go unpunished. This was an insult to my family and to the whole Empire.”
“We are already looking into the matter, Your Majesty,” Tarkas responded. “Our best man is on the job and the sukuda are sure to make their usual… inquiries.”
“Excellent.” Orkann paused and then added, “You are both very competent officers and I am glad to have you on my side. I will need the strength of such advisors.”
“How do you wish for us to deal with Progressives?” Tarkas ventured. “Clearly, their rally was the catalyst for last night’s riots. My instinct tells me that the assassins were opportunistic in the chaos.”
“Heretics are our concern, not reformers. Make whatever arrests you deem necessary, but know that we cannot afford a crackdown now.” Orkann rose. “On that note, I need to meet with Tolakko to discuss the matter further. Frusrand guide your paths today.”
Both krokator dropped to their knees. “Frusrand bless you, Your Majesty.”
#
Ankina, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System
Ankina was an ancient city, steeped in myth, legend and tradition. Walking its narrow streets gave the feeling of a krokator city several centuries in the past. It was a testament to the old Empire, the one that had conquered Rukkur in bloody wars before conquering space.
When the precursor to the modern state had been busy conquering the world under the legendary Emperor Agukkan, the last kingdom to avoid his armies had been Ankina, nestled in its mountainous stronghold for almost twenty years. Even after Agukkan vanquished the rebellious state in his final battle, citizens of Ankina had always had a fierce, independent mindset, and their city’s culture had been shaped by their ancient tradition of resisting the Imperial City, usually in silence.
The Progressive Movement had thus found a suitable home in the largest city on the cold, frigid Third Continent far across the northern sea from Rukkur’s other four landmasses. The city had never seen a strong Imperial presence and had fostered the Progressives with a sympathetic local regent until their presence was too strong to remove without force.
After making sure to stop to quickly pray and receive a blessing at a local temple, Zurra made his way into Old Ankina, in the heart of the city. The neighborhood’s ancient blackrock structures rose before him, packed tight together so that the streets barely fit three krokator abreast. Compared to the Krokandir, Ankina was a backwater dump, surprising for such a large city on the capital world. Unlike the Imperial City’s ancient buildings, very little care had been given to the crumbling communes and public houses. Many buildings had been boarded up with wood and clay, and protective bars covered windows of stores and homes, a rarity even in the Krokandir’s most violent neighborhoods.
So this is what Progressive rule looks like, Zurra thought with a smirk. And indeed, it was every bit the liberal stronghold Tarkas had described – almost every civilian wore the yellow and blue sashes of the Movement around their waist, sometimes even in their tokkom or around their arms. Zurra had been given a Progressive sash of his own to avoid attention, and he blended right in.
He found the inn he was looking for and knocked on the wooden door – covered in chiseled patterns for good luck – and a stern-looking matron opened it.
“Blessings of the Truuknan, madam,” he said politely. “May I enter your inn?”
“Of course,” she replied equally politely. Her voice carried warmth hidden by her stony facial expression.
A hefty, out-of-shape male peered out from behind a desk tucked around a corner inside the bare, empty lobby. “Hello, sharm! We have your room for you, all prepared…”
Zurra bowed his head gratefully. “I do not expect to be around often, I have business to attend to in the city. I thank you in advance for your hospitality.”
“It is our honor, sharm. We serve four meals a day, all cooked by my wife and served in our dining room.” The innkeeper handed Zurra a metallic disc. “The key to your room, sharm. Third floor, second door on your left. Enjoy your stay in Ankina!”
“I expect to,” Zurra replied with appropriate cordiality. He ascended the stairs at the rear of the inn to the third floor and opened the door to his room. It was a small chamber with a simple bed, table and chair, as well as a screen along one wall displaying local news. It was bare of decorations spare an altar for daily prayers.
“Sharm Zurra, I was wondering if you were ever going to come,” a voice said from behind him.
Zurra turned to see a dark green krokator with a blue and yellow Progressive band in his tokkom leaning casually in the doorframe.
“You are very lucky that I am not an assassin, you would already have been dead,” the stranger said. “May I come in?”
“Please, do,” Zurra replied, setting a hand against the knife he had tucked into his waistband.
“Fear not, we serve the same Emperor,” the krokator said before whispering under his breath, “Dokai moi yohakka”
It was Archaic Krokam, which few could still speak, now mostly only used by agents of the secretive sukuda to identify themselves to fellow servants of the Emperor. Zurra had been told that the short phrase – without knowing what it actually meant – was the password that his contact in Ankina would use, and he relaxed slightly.
“Do many sukuda agents wear the colors of the Movement?”
The contact chuckled and had a seat on the bed. “There is a concept we have called ‘deep cover’. Naturally, I cannot divulge my identity to you…”
“I am aware of your procedures. How did you find me so quickly?”
“Admiral Tarkas told me this was where you would be staying. I expected you earlier, Sharm Zurra. Your flight arrived an hour ago.”
“I stopped to pray at the temple.”
The agent n
odded respectfully. “Understandable.”
“So what news do you have for me?”
“Security is being tightened here after the Emperor’s death, but no riots yet. The whole city is waiting apprehensively for a crackdown on the Movement.”
“Is there one coming?”
“It is unlikely. We know the attack did not originate from here – the Progressives did not want to see the Emperor killed, not now when they are on the cusp of full legitimacy.”
“It would seem counterproductive, yes.”
“I suspect that your Imperial City Progressives are of a more docile nature, but here in Ankina, they are in control. The Imperial regent here is a figurehead – the city is run by Edrakk Molka, the second-in-command of the entire Movement.”
“Molka… a familiar name.”
“He was a candidate to become High Prod after Arranko retired. Molka respectfully resigned after being snubbed in favor of Nikkwill, whom he is said to detest.”
Zurra sat on the chair and laid his hands on the table. “Do you think Molka or his lieutenants could be involved with Hudda Kugrall?”
“Doubtful. Molka was a career officer and regime loyalist who built his career on brutally persecuting heretics. Besides, the upper hierarchy of the Movement is under too great of scrutiny to risk consorting with such unsavory characters.”
“A friend of mine – one of the most reliable Progressive informants in the Imperial City, before you ask – suggested to me that a krokator named Kamaan Dakkal might be involved with heretics in the course of his business transactions.”
The sukuda agent raised an eyebrow. “Dakkal?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“You would be hard pressed to meet anyone in the city who does not. He has a sizeable territory in the southern part of the city that he calls his own. Dakkal offers ‘protection’ to businesses in the area, another way of saying that he takes bribes in return for not killing civilians. He has considerable influence beyond the city too.”
“Why has he not been arrested?”
“Dakkal has connections in Molka’s inner circle and amongst city authorities. Moving against him would get messy for those involved. The decision was made long ago that he is best left alone. Less trouble that way.”
Zurra considered this information. “How do I get to Dakkal? If he has connections to a foreign group or to heretics, I want to know about it.”
“Who is he accused of associating with?”
“My contact suggested he may have had Marsa Grakko’s help in his rise to power here, but there was no definitive evidence.”
“Ukkum strike me… Dakkal is a criminal, yes, but he used his friends in high places to pave his way to power. I cannot imagine him being backed by the Forbidden Army.”
“I can only hope to find out, friend,” Zurra replied. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“He is said to be difficult to find. He has made many enemies over the years and if he is involved with heretics, he has probably left the city by now after last night’s events. I will ask some questions and get you information. In the meantime, try not to stray too far from this inn. Ankina is not known for being a safe city.”
“Understood. Frusrand guide your path today.”
“And yours, Sharm Zurra.” The sukuda agent rose, smiled and left, leaving Zurra to ponder the fact that his job had been reduced to chasing criminals.
Chapter Ten: The French Connection
Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System
Gresham woke up with a start. The sun was shining through his office window and he rubbed his eyes to adjust to the light. He realized that he had been woken up by the loud, intrusive beep of someone trying to enter his office.
“Come on in,” he said, before realizing they couldn’t. “Unlock,” he quickly added, and his far wall window seamlessly went from egg-colored white to a clear view of Moss looking flustered through the window.
“Jesus, John, did you sleep here?”
“I was up doing research all night.”
“On…?”
“Well, I wrote a report for you on the disaster in the Empire,” Gresham said testily. “Then I read over Vance’s files, and something’s not right. There’s something missing from his files completely. Here, I’ll show you…”
Gresham staggered off of his small, uncomfortable couch and turned on his screen. He pressed a few buttons and brought up the Vance report on the display. “I have a hard time believing that a Section One operative, especially one as good as Vance, would really spend over a week hunting down that invoice from Ventura. I could follow the bureaucratic trail to get to the murdered processor – Alan Evans – in about half an hour.”
Moss leaned over Gresham’s shoulder. “What am I looking at?”
“This is an official Allied protocol guide for how to file and process weapons requests from depositories. And it gets really specific too. Evans was in charge of handling paperwork and information from only greater Los Angeles. He didn’t have anything to do with any other similar weapons depots in California or other regions. Evans was the only person Vance would have to go talk to. And I doubt that Vance was worse at looking up Alliance guidelines than I am.”
Gresham knew from the silence that Moss was contemplating this find. The colonel finally ventured, “How has Section One not seen this yet?”
“Once Vance and Evans were attacked, the matter got transferred to SIS. I need to see their files to figure out what else is known about the whole matter.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I know it won’t be easy. Apparently all of Vance’s files from the last half-year have been transferred to an SIS database and Cray put his personal stamp on it.”
“Over a single murder?”
Gresham shrugged. “You’d think Spec Intel has more important things to put Level Two classification on. I think Cray just doesn’t want us snooping in his jurisdiction.”
“I can try to see what I can do, and worst comes to worst I’ll get Godford involved. Still, we all know how tight-lipped that slimy bastard is with information SIS has and we don’t.”
“I’m going to go see Chuck in Section One – he’ll probably know more personally about Vance’s investigation, and might still have access to pieces that weren’t in the official report I read.”
Moss nodded in approval. “Good. I have to sort out more of this Imperial debacle, but let me know how it goes with Beveridge. He’ll probably tell you whatever you need to know.”
#
Moss was right. General Charles Beveridge, the head of Section One, allowed Gresham to drop in without an appointment to see him in his office two floors above Section Four in the crumbling old building Military Intelligence called home.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure, John, of actually working with you in person. Godford told me what was going on, and I’m more than happy to help.”
“It’s a pleasure, General. I just wanted to know a little bit more about Vance’s investigation into the missing weapons from Ventura, if that’s alright.”
Beveridge stroked his thin beard and stared out his office’s window, watching HUVRs zoom by down Crest Avenue. “It was very cut and dry. A large consignment of weaponry had been removed from the Ventura depository and Vance was asked to figure out where they went. Nothing too unusual at the outset.”
Gresham nodded. “Why would Section One get involved, then? Couldn’t you just trace the authorization back electronically?”
“The authorization was confidential, so we really just wanted to make sure everything was done according to procedure since the guns never showed up at the camp they were earmarked for. I never thought it would get this complicated, honestly. We do routine checkups like this all the time if we suspect something might be a little off.”
“Okay, well, here’s where things get confusing for me; I managed to trace the invoice back to Alan Evans’ office in thirty minutes, but Vance hunted Evans down a
whole week after the theft. This is as if he was assigned a project, flew to Pollux and back and then walked in on Evans getting stabbed. What’s wrong with that picture?”
Beveridge considered the question before saying, “That is a bit odd, I agree. Although… he was working on something else when he volunteered for the assignment.”
This caught Gresham by surprise. “What?”
“Vance didn’t need a week to find Evans, you’re completely right. Vance was working on an investigation before then and when the Ventura issue popped up, I originally assigned it to a junior agent. Jeff came in here literally forty-five minutes later and demanded that he be given the job.”
“Why would he do that?”
Beveridge shrugged. “Beats the shit out of me. Vance seemed to think it would have something to do with his ongoing inquiry.”
“He was working on something else?”
“Yes. He had a project going with SIS… something about weapons smugglers working out of the Zone. Not the kind of thing we usually get involved with.”
“I’m really confused,” Gresham muttered and placed his face in his hands.
“I was too. Not just that SIS was voluntarily working with us, but because Vance usually kept me in the loop on whatever he was working on. You knew the guy, he wasn’t secretive.”
Gresham leaned back in his seat. “What do you think he stumbled upon?”
“I had no idea what it was. Something got his attention and made him hunt down Evans. It’s hard to say if Vance knew the attack was coming or not.”
“What a bad stroke of luck.”
“I know, especially after that attempt on the President’s life yesterday. I have a nagging feeling that Vance found out something that was worth shutting him up over, but you’d think that he’d have told us if he knew about the bombing beforehand.”
“That’s why I don’t think that’s what it was, though Godford and the President disagree.”
Beveridge nodded. “And I guess it’s your job to find out what that was. Good luck. SIS is clamping down on the Vance investigation like a dragon guarding its gold. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, and I’ve been here for twenty years.”