Wil McCarthy - The Collapsium

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Will you walk us through it?”

“A pleasure, Commandant-Inspector, though I’m afraid there isn’t much to it.” Images appeared on all the little pads, and on a backlit holographic rectangle that appeared in the center of the table’s smooth surface, like a glass window looking down on outer space, on the golden-white sphere of Marlon’s house spinning silently against the starscape, lit mainly by floodlights but with a sliver of bright sunlight illuminating one side. “A directed energy stream approximately six meters wide strikes the house in a single pulse at fourteen hours fifty-two minutes, penetrating here and exiting here . Although the structure remains largely intact, atmospheric containment fails immediately—note the venting gases—and power distribution fails within seconds.”

The little house shot gouts of debris and glittering crystals of frozen air from a pair of circular openings that appeared in it. The mangled Athenian structures within showed clearly.

“Power distribution failed?” Marlon asked angrily. “There’s wellstone all through that house—more than enough redundancy to keep it alive.”

“Yes sir. Apparently it was the embedded computing structures themselves that failed.”

“Secondary radiation?” Bruno speculated. “A shower of charged particles released by the sudden energy flux?”

“Possibly, sir.”

“What sort of beam was it?”

“Unknown, sir.”

“Hmm.” Bruno pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger, as was his habit when attempting to concentrate. “I don’t suppose you have the precise time of impact? Coupled with the rotation rate of the house, that could be used to trace the beam back to its source.”

“We have timeline only to the half minute, sir, based on long-range radar tracks of the larger debris. I expect to refine that figure through proximity scan and direct assay of the impact site.”

“This is police business,” Vivian noted impatiently. “Shiao does know what he’s doing.”

“Please,” Tamra said, holding up a hand in what was either a scolding or a beseeching gesture, or perhaps both. “The Royal Committee for Investigation of Ring Collapsiter Anomalies does share jurisdiction here. Their investigation precedes yours, in fact precedes the murder itself, and I daresay their business is the more urgent. You’re to provide de Towaji with anything he asks.”

“Oh,” Vivian said, with surprising equanimity. “Okay.”

Bruno, who hadn’t realized he was a member of any sort of official committee, said, with some embarrassment, “Er, what’s the soonest you could get us a full reconstruction?”

Shiao shrugged. “Unknown, sir. Since the investigating cruiser is some seven light-minutes distant, I haven’t communicated with myself directly. For a precise figure, you’d have to ask me there yourself, in person.”

“Ah. An excellent suggestion. Your cruiser is fully equipped? Can I fax myself there?”

Shiao looked alarmed. “Well, um, technically yes, sir, but in actuality I was attempting a joke. You’d need to be certified for shipboard operations. Have you even had any spacesuit training?”

Bruno laughed. “Breathe in, breathe out, and keep your boot grapples engaged? I’ve seen it in the movies.”

“Sir, emergency procedures alone require eight weeks of intensive immersion. I’m afraid I can’t authorize—”

“You can authorize it,” Her Majesty said firmly. “Was I unclear about this? De Towaji is operating under full royal dispensation, and shall have whatever resources he requires. His safety is my responsibility, not yours.”

Nervously, Shiao pressed. “Sir, have you ever even worn a spacesuit?”

“No,” Bruno admitted, “but I grew up in a back-to-basics community where primitive skills like that were highly prized. I’m adaptable. Don’t worry, son; I intend no unwarranted risks, and you’ll be held blameless for any foolishness on my part. I do think this merits my attention, though. And yours, Marlon, if you feel up to accompanying me.”

“It’s my house,” Marlon said unhappily. “Of course I’ll go.”

“And I,” Tamra said, stifling Shiao’s protest with a stern look. “It’s my Queendom at risk. And I have had spacesuit and spaceship training—in fact, I’m a level-one instructor.” Shiao looked surprised at this, which only made Her Majesty grow sterner. “You think I’m a twit, like my dear departed Queen Mother? All my life I’ve had the finest doctors, the finest fax programmers, the finest tutors and trainers. I’m as fit and as fast and as wise as modern science can make me, and I’ve been certified with more tools and vehicles and weapons than you’ve probably ever heard of. It’s not Tamra Lutui who’ll step aboard that cruiser, but the Queendom of Sol itself, and your approval, Lieutenant, has not been solicited.”

Bruno noted that Marlon, who’d been Tamra’s childhood mathematics tutor long before he’d been anything else, swelled with pride at these remarks. Shiao, though, gasped, bowed his head, and dropped to his knees.

“Meaning no disrespect, Your Majesty! My concern is only for your safety!”

“And appreciated as such,” Tamra conceded. “But overruled. Vivian, have you retained any spacesuit training?”

“Um, I think so.”

“Excellent. Will you accompany us?”

“Sure.”

Bruno watched Shiao’s down-turned face, thinking he’d never seen someone actually bite back a protest before. He dered if it was anywhere near as uncomfortable as it looked.

It took less than fifteen minutes for the Constabulary wardrobe to dress them all in custom-fit, top-of-the-line vacuum-safety equipment, by which time Shiao admitted that his docking maneuvers were complete and that he was dutifully awaiting the Royal Committee in what remained of Sykes Manor.

Bruno flexed his fingers and elbows and knees experimentally. The silvery-blue garments weren’t nearly as heavy or stiff as they looked, and the helmet dome, when he commanded it to swing shut over his head, was optically superconducting, invisible except for faint silver marking dots applied to it— he supposed they were there so he’d know where the dome was, so he wouldn’t accidentally try to put his gloved fingers through it.

They each had their name emblazoned on their rebreather backpacks—literally emblazoned , in dully glowing red letters. Bruno’s said TOWAJI, an error or abbreviation he hadn’t seen fit to correct. And here around him, as they crowded into the fax atrium, were SYKES and SKETTERING, a miniature RAJMON and a couple of hulking SHIAOs.

Tamra’s suit alone was nameless, bearing only the royal seal, but it was unmistakable from any angle, being purple in color, with bright gold trim that seemed to—possibly did — glow with its own inner light. It also managed, despite its bulk, to look sexy on her, the cut somehow exaggerating the hourglass of her waist, the curve of her calves, the gentle swell of rump and bosom. Crisscrossing reinforcement straps, their placement engineered to look coincidental, contrived to emphasize each perfect breast in a way that made Bruno feel almost as though he were imagining it, as though he were a lecher and a boor unworthy of the Virgin Queen’s chaste presence. Doubtless, she’d downloaded the pattern from her palace wardrobe, which had designed it for exactly these qualities. Of such silly but powerful subtleties was court life constructed. Perhaps it was a kind of joke.

The royal bodyguards alone remained undressed, looking almost vulnerable alongside their armored Queen. Nonetheless, pistols at the ready, they stepped through the gate to prepare the way for her. She followed closely; Bruno, right in tow, felt compelled to study the heart shape of her purple armored behind.