Divorce Settlement.
The chorus erupted, at least fifty singers, as the shuttle’s engines kicked in. Colin Hess wasn’t little anymore, he was graduating university with his business degree. But his father wasn’t at the graduation, because business had come up that day.
The soprano and the tenor were trying to sing over the chorus, but they couldn’t; the sheer volume and numbers of the chorus were too great to drown out. Colin Hess was standing at his wedding reception with the new Mrs. Julia Hess, cutting into the cake. Colin looked around, trying to spot his friends from school or childhood in the crowd. There weren’t many – he could count them on two hands. The rest of the sizable crowd was either an acquaintance of Julia’s or his father’s. Every important businessman, politician or power broker from Mars was at the wedding, even some Commissioners from other worlds.
The baritone began singing and the chorus drew back to give him center stage, the orchestra droned out ominous notes, and the soprano sang with worry in her throat. Johannes Hess’s face filled the video screen aboard the private shuttle whisking Colin away to his honeymoon. This was the moment father and son had waited to seize for years – the chance to take Hessian Engineering to the top of the market. Another private military contractor, Blackwood, was going into bankruptcy. Johannes was felt ill and needed his son at the meeting to finalize the merger in two weeks. The Blackwood executives needed to know the family was still in control of the deal and the company.
Colin couldn’t say no. Julia’s eyes filled with anger and she demanded Colin choose between her and the company. Their honeymoon was for a month’s trip all around the galaxy.
The soprano softened her tone, drowned out by the baritone and his vicious chorus. Colin stuck his hand out and shook the hand of every Blackwood executive on the other side of the table as his lawyers and board members applauded him.
There was an audible boom that drowned out even the sounds of the opera as the shuttle hurtled through Terra’s atmosphere. A china plate hurtled past Colin and smashed into the wall behind him at his vacation home on Diocletian. Julia was screaming while a Gardelli nanny pulled two twin crying girls away. She was followed closely by a human butler, who was holding an infant boy in his arms. The boy was staring back at his father. Would he too be the next heir to the dynasty?
The soprano shrieked and hit notes Hess would have otherwise found impossible. The papers, the papers titled Divorce Settlement, were strewn about his study. Colin was drunk and angry. A business deal had exploded in his face and now these Divorce Settlement papers were on his desk. The tenor howled and the baritone sung deliciously as the chorus enveloped everything. The portraits of Albrecht and Johannes Hess, side by side, leered down at Colin as he sank into his grandfather’s favorite armchair in the study.
The coffin of Johannes Hess was lowered into the red earth of Mars, on the same plot of land that Albrecht was buried in. Both men were buried alone, their wives long since laid to rest elsewhere. Colin knew that he too would be buried near the previous two generations of men in his family, and that he too would be buried alone.
The tenor hit sweet but sad notes. Colin studied the face of his son, now a grown man, introducing him to his fiancée. She was lovely, lovelier than Julia. Had his son lived a better, happier life because he was not consumed by the company?
Colin watched his son take his wedding vows against the backdrop of the famed orchards of Olympus Mons. The soprano was soft but audible. The chorus was gone. His twin daughters danced with attractive young suitors and Colin invited Julia up for a dance, for old time’s sake. She was tense, and her new husband initially looked disapproving, but he and Colin were on good terms after all these years.
His son was standing in front of him in his office, wondering if he could learn his way around the family business. Benjamin looked so much like Johannes Hess – he could well have been the deceased patriarch come alive from the portrait behind the massive armchair.
The baritone’s serpentine notes slithered back onto the stage. Colin and his son were having casual drinks at the shareholder’s meeting, laughing and shaking hands. His son was following his father’s lead like an obedient student, asking who everyone was and making sure to approach the right people.
The soprano wailed and the tenor shrunk back. Colin turned on a news report to discover his face on the screen, and that there were serious allegations with substantial evidence suggesting that Hessian Engineering had, for years, been selling weapons in the unstable, unaligned Border Worlds.
His son put a hand on his weary father’s shoulder. His son said that he was more than happy to face the press, that he was ready to protect the company. That he would discuss it with his wife and face the consequences.
The tenor suddenly erupted with power and force. The baritone’s next stanza of notes was filled with awe and surprise as he was beat back.
Colin stood up out of his chair, looked his son in the eyes and said one word: No.
The tenor and the soprano began a beautiful duet. Colin waited until the emergency board meeting had ended, until all the profit charts were gone and the doomsday scenarios about a Commission crackdown and subpoenas and hearings and indictments and convictions and prison sentences were over.
As he had been many times in his life, Colin was alone. His only company in the office was the oil-canvas gaze of his father and grandfather. The soprano closed out the song with a flowery, soft and lovely finish. Colin picked up his voxcom and contacted the one person he knew could help.
Perry’s voice filled the other end of the line, pleasantly surprised that Colin Hess was calling.
“We’re here, sir,” the pilot announced as the shuttle touched down to the tarmac of Hess’s private seaside villa on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
Hess disembarked from the shuttle, staring over the sunset on the ocean, the sound of crashing waves filling his ears. He closed his eyes, smelt the salt-spackled air and listened to cawing seagulls in the sky above him.
“Sir?” He turned and saw two large men holding a large metal box. “What should we do with this?”
“Put it somewhere safe,” Hess replied and adjusted his glasses. “And let Perry know that I’m here.”
“Will do, sir.” They picked the box up and carried it into the house. Hess watched them every step of the way.
If he had to be buried, at least he wouldn’t be alone.
#
Zurra stuck a cup under a nozzle and said, “Water.” Tiff complied and his eyes widened with amazement. He quickly emptied his glass and made the same command again.
“Neat, isn’t it?” Gresham grinned and pulled a fresh T-shirt on. “I take it you don’t have those in the Empire?”
“No, we do not,” Zurra replied and sipped the water. “This is very impressive. I did not realize you humans were so technologically advanced.”
“Well, it’s the galactic age, we try our best,” Gresham said and stuck a cup under a different spout. “Coffee, Tiff.” His AI complied and Gresham glanced over at Zurra. “You want some too?”
“Ukkum strike me, never,” Zurra recoiled. They had been speaking back and forth in mixed Krokam and Standard since locating Gresham’s HUVR at the Department of Defense and driving to Topanga. It was night outside now and Zurra seemed fascinated by the alien constellations Gresham had pointed out to him.
“You’ve never seen new constellations before?”
“Well, no, I have – but I have spent most of my life on Rukkur or Kenka, so I have learned the sky maps of those worlds. Whenever I travel elsewhere, I do not have time to gaze at the heavens.”
Gresham nodded. “I understand. Well, gaze away. They’ll be here ‘til morning and we live far enough from the city where the lights don’t fade them out.”
They both sat down on Gresham’s couch after Gresham requested Tiff make them each a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. They sat awkwardly before Gresham ventured, “So you’re from the Imperial Cit
y, huh?”
“No, but I live there now, with my sister and her husband. I am from Kenka originally. Have you heard of it?”
“I haven’t.”
“It is a farming world in the Middle Ring. I am not surprised you have not heard of it; I doubt any Kenkosh has had a real effect on Imperial policy in centuries. We tend to stay out of the main view.”
“I see.”
“You are from Terra, yes?”
Gresham shook his head. “No, we’re both transplants. I’m from Solaris. It’s a world a few light years away from here. Honestly, I hate this place. If I could leave Terra I would, in a heartbeat.”
“But your work makes it impossible. I know what you mean,” Zurra said sympathetically and looked around. “Is there a place I can bathe? I feel very unclean.”
“There’s a shower. Would that work?”
“I do not know what a shower is; you will have to show me.”
Gresham led Zurra to his shower and instructed him on how to use it. The krokator seemed fascinated by the mechanics of the shower and then paused uncomfortably while he waited for Gresham to leave the room so that he could disrobe.
Once he heard that the shower was turned on, Gresham pulled out his voxcom and contacted Lara.
“Gresham! What the hell! I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“I’ve been tied down, I’m sorry. I need you to do a favor for me.”
“Which is?”
“I need the immigration records for a Sharm Akgu Zurra, and see if you can pull any information on him from other sources.”
Lara’s pause was lengthy and telling. “Are you saying you found the assassin from earlier today?”
“Assassin? What are you talking about?”
“You don’t watch the news much, do you?”
“Just send me the records, it’s urgent. And come over here as quickly as possible.”
“Okay, I’m just at the office so I’ll see you soon.”
“Great,” Gresham said and disconnected. He opened his screen and punched in his password quickly, listening carefully to make sure that the shower was still running. He opened the MID database at his clearance level and typed in the name Sharm Akgu Zurra.
The database searched and produced three results, all from diplomatic chatter Section 4 had received over the past few months.
The first item read: Krokator Military Operative, Sharm Akgu Zurra, believed to be receiving awards from High Prod Trakk Nikkwill himself for the completion of a successful, undetermined covert operation outside of Imperial space.
The second item: Dedication of Prod Akgu Juska Scholarship to benefit poor families with capable officer candidates who otherwise cannot afford costs at the [Academy]. In attendance, the late Juska’s children – Sharm Akgu Zurra and Ardas Urula.
Gresham grimaced and rubbed his eyes. This was mostly worthless. He glanced at the final item and his eyebrow rose.
The decorated Sharm Akgu Zurra, the son of the late Prod Akgu Juska, was reportedly one of the final krokator to see Emperor Urkus Ruskir before his assassination. The Imperial Military has ruled out Zurra as a suspect, and even privately commemorated him for attempting to stop the attack from occurring. Sources cannot verify the accuracy of this information.
Well that’s odd, Gresham thought and typed the name in again, on the unofficial wires. Maybe something had appeared in the Prime Network that they hadn’t caught about his new guest.
Nothing. That was somewhat surprising; even Gresham had found mentions of himself, at least mention of his title, when scouring the Alliance’s chatter from remote installations during security checks.
The shower turned off and Gresham quickly exited the page. As he did, the immigration records he had requested appeared on his screen, and they appeared initially mundane. Zurra had arrived on Monday and been flagged due to his military credentials, but released after a five hour holding period. Apparently, he had also been involved in an altercation on Redondo Beach early Tuesday morning.
This guy gets in trouble easy, Gresham thought. He typed a quick thank you in a message to Lara and sent the immigration records back after making a copy for his own files.
Zurra emerged, toweling himself off. “Is the food ready?”
“Go ahead and grab a plate. Tiff makes good spaghetti.”
“Who is Tiff?”
Gresham pointed upwards and twirled his finger. Zurra nodded. “Oh. I understand.”
They both started eating and Zurra looked like he was in heaven, mulching down the food as quickly as possible and smacking his lips.
“You want to watch some TV?” Gresham asked.
“What is that?”
“Well… here, I’ll turn it on and you just tell Tiff what channel you want. Any number between 1 and 999. I think there’s a Krokam-language channel on there somewhere.”
Zurra nodded. “Thank you, cooker of foods.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m going to step outside for a minute, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where would I go?”
“Exactly. Just hang tight.”
Gresham hurried out of his apartment, subtly locking the door behind him, and walked down to the main drag of the Palisades apartment complex, glancing around at the neighboring stucco buildings to make sure nobody was watching. Lara’s HUVR appeared at the top of the road about five minutes later and she parked it in the street.
Lara did not look pleased to see Gresham. “I cannot believe you were so stupid, John. You’re lucky Jack French is alive, and we can only cross our fingers to hope he doesn’t wind up with brain damage. I should have you arrested for this.”
“Is French pressing charges?”
“He can’t even remember his own name let alone yours, but it’s only a matter of time before somebody gets a hold of the security footage from the building. We have a few hours at best.”
Gresham waved her concerns off. “Paine will postpone any investigation until after Friday’s security summit. That gives us a few days of wiggle room.”
“Simon Cray is furious,” Lara said. “He’s considered filing a motion to suspend all charges against French due to illegal methods of arrest.”
“You arrested him just fine. It’s not like I have jurisdiction anyways.”
“How are you so blasé about this? Cray can and wants to get an arrest warrant for you. Do you really think Paine can protect you?”
Gresham sighed. “Look, Lara, I don’t have time for this right now. Will you or won’t you help me?”
“Help you with what?”
“He might be under arrest, but I don’t think French requisitioned the weapons.”
“Did you find this out before or after you beat the shit out of him?”
“I only punched him the one time… Sharm Zurra clothes-lined him the second time.”
“Wait, who? Isn’t that the name on the immigration records? I thought the assassin’s name was Kurtrekk Sukkom…”
“An alias,” Gresham said carefully. “An alias for what I believe is a sukuda agent operating on Terra. He hasn’t told me much, but I think that the krokator are under the impression that we have something to do with the Emperor’s assassination last week. Or at least that somebody on Terra has information.”
“Oh Jesus. Somebody? On a planet of twelve billion? Somebody out of twelve billion goddamn people might know something? You have a knack for specifics, Major.” The old, snappy, aggressive Lara was back.
Gresham threw his hands up in the air. “What do you want me to say? I’m voicing my suspicion. I think he has a point, too.”
“Wait wait, did you say… he hasn’t told you much?” Lara’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Major, what have you gotten yourself into? He’s upstairs, isn’t he?”
“That’s why I called you… I didn’t know how else to proceed. I’m not exactly an experienced interrogator.”
“I bet Jack French and his broken face think you’re a great interrogator.” r />
They ascended the stairs back to Gresham’s apartment, but before they entered, Gresham paused. “He’s a little quiet, but he’s friendly. Very solemn and formal.”
“So like every krokator, in other words.”
“Well, yes. Just let him warm up to you. He’s a nice guy.”
They entered the apartment and found Zurra riveted by a program about the history of the Alliance. He glanced at Gresham.
“It is interesting to see the lies your screen tells,” Zurra remarked. “They purport that we krokator were the aggressors in the Third Human-Krokator War!”
He noticed Lara and immediately stood up, snapping to attention.
Lara laughed. “Kura go bundo, komok?” How are you, friend?
Zurra relaxed a little and looked warily at Gresham before replying formally and courteously, “Do anga, kundingo.” I am fine, thank you.
Lara sat down. “I’m afraid that’s all the Krokam I know. Do you speak Standard? Rupungo Standard?”
Zurra nodded. “Na. Pungur rupundo.” Yes. I speak a little.
Gresham indicated Zurra. “Lara, this is Sharm Akgu Zurra with the Imperial Military. He’s a member of the advance diplomatic detail for Friday’s summit. Zurra, this is Lara Taylor, Special Intelligence Service.”
Lara extended her hand and Zurra eyed it suspiciously. Finally, he gingerly tapped it with his palm, raising an eyebrow to see if that was the appropriate greeting.
Gresham smiled knowingly. “He’s not up to speed on human customs, as you can see.”
“Clearly. So what brings you to Terra, Sharm Zurra?”
“I do not know if I can speak of it,” Zurra replied cautiously, glancing away to avoid eye contact. “I do not know that I can trust either of you yet.”
“Zurra, I got you out of French’s office alive, didn’t I?” Gresham ventured.
“You mean the man who would have posed me no threat had you not been fighting him when I arrived,” Zurra replied. Lara smirked, shooting Gresham a dirty look.
“What would it take for you to trust me?” Gresham asked. “I’ve opened my home to you and hidden you from the authorities, who I guarantee are out looking for you.”
“Oh, believe me, they are,” Lara muttered.
“Easy on the snark, Lara,” Gresham hissed back. “Antagonizing him isn’t helping.”