Wil McCarthy - The Collapsium

The rest, as they say, is history.

So understand that the officer in charge of the grapple station crime scene, one Lieutenant Cheng Shiao of the Royal Constabulary, did a commendable job of not acting flabbergasted or starstruck when the expected First Philander stepped through the fax gate with the quite unexpected Queen of Sol in tow, plus a pair of dainty metal bodyguards, plus an extra Philander who was quite famous in his own right. Shiao bowed to each of them in turn and explained with perfect professionalism that in light of the victims’ rank and occupation, a more senior investigator had been called and was expected on the scene shortly. In the meantime, if he could just ask a few questions…

Marlon Sykes, for his part, did a commendable job of answering without visible emotion. Had he had any reason to expect violence? No. Had any threats been made against him? No. Did he have any enemies? Certainly, yes. A man in his position could hardly avoid it. But mortal enemies? He’d have to think about that one. He had just uncovered evidence of—

Presently, the fax gate spat out a disheveled young woman Bruno took a moment to recognize as Deliah van Skeltering. Dressed not in work shirt and trousers but in a rumpled saffron evening gown, she sported an arch of flowers above her off-kilter platinum braids and looked as if she’d been crying.

Her first words were, “This is a fine hello, isn’t it? Talk about going from bad to worse!”

“There there, miss,” Cheng Shiao consoled. His voice could be, all at once, soothing and professional and yet loud enough to drown out the whine of machinery.

“Hi,” Marlon added, disspiritedly.

“When you’re ready, miss, a few questions?”

“Oh. Of course, yes. Hello, Your Highness. It’s very nice of you to be here.”

Tamra inclined her head in acknowledgment.

The fax gate, its entrance already crowded, hummed for a moment before expelling another figure, this time a young girl in what looked like a school uniform: beige blouse, dark gray necktie, beige pleated skirt, dark gray socks, black shoes. Her eyes—the left one half-hidden by a VR monocle—fixed immediately on Shiao, then swept the rest of the assembled persons coolly. She looked, to Bruno’s inexperienced eye, about ten or eleven years old, on the threshold of puberty but still girlishly proportioned. Her carriage and posture and gait were all wrong, though. Or partly wrong, anyway, as if she’d spent too much time around grown-ups and had forgotten how to move like a child.

“Commandant-Inspector,” Shiao said at once, throwing his shoulders back, his chin up, his chest forward. “Thank you for relieving me. It will please me to assist you on this case in any way I can.”

Astonished, Bruno looked at the little girl again, more closely this time, noting that Shiao had made no such display of obsequity to a pair of Declarant-Philanders, nor even to the Queen of Sol herself. Commandant-Inspector? He’d always assumed that was a rank for octogenarians, senior police officers with decades of crime-fighting experience.

He noted, too, Tamra’s and Marlon’s and Deliah’s lack of surprise at the policeman’s reaction. They knew this girl, or knew of her, if indeed the word “girl” applied in any but the most outward sense. Perhaps it was a disguise, an invitation to underestimate the person beneath?

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the girl said. Then, curtseying to Tamra, “Good evening, Your Majesty. Sorry to meet you under these circumstances; I hadn’t heard you were at the scene. Declarant Sykes, Laureate van Skeltering, allow me to express my condolences.”

And this perplexed Bruno still further, because the voice was very much that of a young girl trying hard to act mature, and while she was speaking, her right foot twisted and dug at the floor’s metal decking, and her right hand grabbed a corner of her skirt and twisted it, then dropped it, smoothed it, and finally grabbed it again.

Bruno couldn’t help himself. “You’re the senior investigator?” he blurted.

The girl looked at him, again with that same sort of rapid, confident assessment that said she knew a thing or two about human beings. She didn’t appear overawed with what she saw. “Have we met, sir?”

“Er, I think not. I’m de Towaji.”

“De Towaji who?” Her voice was unimpressed.

Tamra came to the rescue then, stepping sideways to touch a hand to Bruno’s shoulder. “Declarant-Philander Bruno de Towaji, dear. He’s the inventor, among other things, of collapsium.” Then her voice dropped an octave, filled out with genial warning. “Bruno, this is Commandant Vivian Rajmon, a senior inspector of the Royal Constabulary and a personal friend of mine.”

“Senior?” he couldn’t keep from saying.

Commandant-Inspector Vivian Rajmon’s sigh was loud and short, an exclamation of impatience. “The worst part is always having to explain it. Can I pleeease take a leave of absence, Tamra?”

“Not a chance,” Her Majesty said, with stern amusement. “It would encourage the criminal element too much.”

“Explain what?” Bruno asked, still stuck on the girl’s appearance.

Inspector Rajmon sighed again, eyeing Bruno gloomily. “I’ve heard of you. You’re rich. You own your own private planet.”

“Er, a small one, yes.”

“What are you doing here? Wait! Let me guess: you were called in to consult on the fall of the Ring Collapsiter. You visited Marlon Sykes, and were with him when news of his murder arrived.”

Bruno thought to bow. “Your deductions are accurate, uh, mademoiselle.”

She pursed her lips, and looked him over as if weighing the intent of his words. Finally, she said, “I don’t care to explain myself to you. I don’t have to.” Then, to Shiao, she said, “Has the scene been fully documented?”

“Nearly complete, Commandant-Inspector,” Shiao said, stiffly. “We should have a reconstruction in a few minutes.”

Vivian nodded. “Good. Thank you.” Then her voice became amused. “At ease , Lieutenant.”

“Yes’m.” Shiao’s posture slumped just enough to show he was complying with the order.

“Declarant, Laureate,” Vivian said then to Marlon and Deliah, “do you feel up to viewing the bodies?”

Marlon Sykes nodded.

Deliah, for her part, straightened her back, pushed her hair into closer array, and said, “Why not? Nothing could make this evening much worse than it is already.”

“Let’s go, then,” Vivian said, then nodded to Shiao. “Will you keep the news cameras away, please?”

Shiao went rigid again. “Absolutely, Commandant-Inspector. I won’t budge from this spot.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied with that, and set off down the length of the grapple station with the rest of them trailing behind.

The place was crawling with figures in white spacesuits, dozens of them, some on rolling ladders, some on hands and knees, some dangling from roof beams on harnesses of optically superconducting cable so that they seemed to float unsupported in the air. All of them were sweeping every available surface with instruments of various design and purpose.

When Vivian’s entourage had gone far enough and spread out enough that the station’s hum would hide a discreet voice.

Bruno touched Tamra’s elbow and leaned in close to murmur, “She’s got that fellow well cowed, hasn’t she? It seems odd.”

“They adore her,” Her Majesty murmured back. “These constables, all of them, they have such a hard time letting go. Vivian’s situation is very sad, very unfortunate. She hasn’t always been so young.”

“A disguise, then?”

“Hardly. She died in an accident last year, and we’ve had a terrible time tracking down her fax patterns. She wasn’t afraid to fax herself, but she did prefer to travel in that little spaceship of hers. How she loved that ship! But it blew up one day and took her with it.”