So for a while I had been looking to rewrite my original Planetside stories, basically take everything I added to that world and make it my own. I wanted to explore the workings of the Republic and what life was like on Earth and the Colonies, particularly the world of Axis that would eventually be the catalyst of the civil war. I wanted to explore a Republic were the military authority is not absolute, drugs and human trafficking are a major problem, organised crime is rampant, and underneath it all is the growing conspiracy for a military coup d'etat. I'm also using the new universe to re-explore the position of the Executors and their civil authority counterparts the Legislators (who I never got introducing into the original Planetside series). Also, some of you who are reading this may spot the reference to the Staceh backstory that laid the context for the original TBB stories.
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Chapter 1
Political assassinations are not the done thing in polite society,
certainly not if the politician is particularly inept and therefore perfect for
the job. That kind of thing clears the way for all kinds of tyrants and
idealists, neither of whom are good for maintaining the status quo in a system
were little gets done and everyone gets rich.
Still, everyone has enemies, and politicians tend to accumulate them
quicker than most and political enemies tend to have a bite.
Not everyone it can be said is afforded the opportunity to expire in such a beautiful
setting as the Hotel Duc de Saint Sebastian overlooking the bay in Dubrovnik, a
little bit of the French Riviera in Croatia. Anyone dying in such luxury
probably died happy.
Or in this case with two bullet wounds to the chest and slumped across
the corpse of a thirteen year old prostitute.
Legislator Sandford had been assigned the case, the first reason being
that politicians were civilians and a murdered Congressman from Scotland definitely
fell under Legislative authority. The second and more pressing reason was the
child. Sex trafficking was a growing concern within the Republic and the Senate
was threatening to shift authority away from the civil oversight to the Executive branch, military
investigators, and the Legislature were damned if they were going to let the
Executors take over.
Sandford had a good investigative track record so they pulled him off a relatively straight forward fraud case in
Stockholm and put him on the first flight down to the Adriatic.
In better circumstances he liked this part of the world, and with his
dark hair and swarthy skin he was much better suited to this climate than the cold
north, and his family had roots in Montenegro just down the road.
His mere presence intimidated the local police authorities and he very much liked that, the black
uniform of a Parliamentary officer carried a lot of weight and on the occasion
when there wasn’t enough time to earn respect he was happy to settle for fear.
The officers hung back as he surveyed the room, once all pristine whites and
gold leaf now stained with reds turning rust brown. Bloody footprints
crisscrossed the room to wardrobes and drawers tossed asunder, evidently the
killer had been seeking something.
“Have your men inventoried the room?”
The lead detective, a man with the look of a former soldier who had
seen conflict spoke with a clear voice with only the slightest hint of a Balkan
accent.
“Standard fare for a traveller, passport and toiletries, plus his Congressional ID,
Congress lapel pin, datapad, wallet with some money and some cash cards,
personal keys, and a paperback novel.”
“What was the book?”
“Some Scottish murder mystery,” the detective, Kasun replied, “fitting
really.”
“Except Scottish murder mysteries usually involve bodies in fields of
heather,” the other officer, Horvat said, his accent much more pronounced, “and
the killer being English.”
“Or Glaswegian,” Sandford crouched to look across the scene to the
corpse, “the body collapsed on the child, suffocating him?”
“That’s what we believe,” Kasun said, “we were told not to touch the
bodies until you got here. Our forensics team is standing by.”
“You’re sure none of your men have been in here?”
Sandford stood to full height and moved across the room, stepping
carefully around the bloody footprints and indicating the detectives follow
him.
“Certain,” Kasun frowned, “the cleaner found the body this afternoon, when
we realised it was a member of Congress we contacted Parliament, the room was
sealed until your arrival.”
Reaching down Sandford grabbed the wrist of the dead boy and turned the
hand up for the detectives to see the black smudges on the tips of his fingers.
“Then I’d like to find whoever it was fingerprinted this boy.”
***
“Executor Villeford would have us turn the Republic into a police
state!”
There were roars of disapproval from those gathered in congress on the side of the
accuser, the assembled representatives of the Legislative branch.
“The Republic already is a police state, Legislator, we just choose not
to call it that,” Executor Villeford stood in opposition, the Parliamentary
assembly in the House of Commons becoming heated, “what I propose is not a
crackdown or an infringement on basic civil liberties but simply a redistribution
of resources.
“No one can deny that the Colonial Marshal Service is anything other
than an abject failure, militia authority is not enough to maintain security on
the colonies, that much is fact. Only last year an uprising had to be put down
by military force on Larzoss.”
“Yes, Executor,” Legislator Carnegie said over the clapping from the
Executive branch, “and what appellation has been bestowed upon the lieutenant
in command of that force? The Butcher, was it not?”
That statement brought a stream of boos and shouts against the
Executive authority, Carnegie continued, “The military are not prepared to
handle the dynamics of a civilian working system, soldiers only think in terms
of them and us, they think only in conflict. Being leaders of people, of the
public, it is not what they are trained for.”
“Larzoss was an unfortunate result of a loss of control by your
civilian Marshal Service and a failure by the Legislative branch to provide clear and proper intelligence for our troops,” Villeford’s accusation was almost drowned
out by the roar of disapproval from the opposition, “however… however, we still
regained control of the colony, and in our lessons from that we propose the
establishment of a Colonial Guard, a company of men, real soldiers attached to
every colony to protect the people and the interests of the Republic.”
There were cheers from the Executive branch from all except Villeford
who stood with a knowing smile of victory, and from Executor Monaghan who sat
at the back of the Commons watching with quiet reserve. He made a couple of
notes on a pad in his hand and attached it to a message to the central
Executive database labelled for the attentions of Executors Cooke and
Gainsborough.
“And what of the Colonial Administration,” Legislator Carnegie was back
on his feet, “will that too fall under the care of the military, drill a bit of
boot camp efficiency into them?”
“No, no,” Villeford said with a grin, “I believe the Legislative branch
is more than capable of keeping the plumbing functional without our help.”
This brought boos from the Legislators and laughter from the Executors,
Carnegie seethed in silence whilst Monaghan stood and slipped quietly out of
the room.
***
Kasun sipped a strong espresso as he leafed through the case file of
the formerly Congressman Macmillan, the forensics team had spent the better
part of two days going over every inch of the room under the instruction of the
Legislator. They found a couple of different hairs, which would be enough to
get DNA traces on suspects whom more likely than not would turn out to be
former residents of the room.
On the body they found traces of black powder gunpowder which would
suggest that the killer had used an old muzzle loading weapon, most likely an
old revolver, .357 calibre according to the size of the ball bearings removed
from his chest. Kasun sighed, those weapons were beyond antiquated and long
gone were the days when you needed any kind of permit to own one, in the
borderless European heartland of the Republic it could have come from anywhere.
He called a waiter over and ordered a fresh coffee. The café was quite
busy, but then it sat along the Placa-Stradum in the heart of the old city
looking toward the museum on Pred Dvorom. There were plenty of tourists.
Sitting across from him was a handsome man in a sandy shirt and brown
waistcoat, he had the look of a writer or artist with brown hair hanging past
high cheekbones and a pair of spectacles with fine square frames. Kasun had
recently separated from his boyfriend and allowed his mind to briefly wander to
a romantic dalliance with a stranger he met in the café. Deep blue eyes, definitely
not a local, maybe French or Scandinavian, he was thin and delicate in his
movements but Kasun could see the definition of the muscles beneath his shirt.
Keep your mind on the job he told himself, and then it occurred to him
that he had been sitting here for almost half an hour. Legislator Sandford was
supposed to meet him here twenty minutes ago, where the hell was he? Somehow he
didn’t believe the brutally efficient man in black to have problems with
punctuality.
He was going to get up to use the phone when the waiter arrived back
with his coffee, as he paid he saw the handsome man get up and leave. Kasun
sighed and dropped a few coins tip onto the waiter’s tray, at the same time
noticing a man and woman entering from the other side of the veranda and
wearing a little too much clothing for the Croatian summer.
She was from the north, maybe Poland or Latvia from the look of her,
and he was without doubt Russian, and ex-military at that. Square head, square
shoulders, frost blue eyes that could be weapons in themselves, and he was
built like a tank.
Russian Mafia.
Kasun flicked the file to a shot of the suffocated child then looked up
at the new arrivals, the woman was looking over at him. That answered the
question of who was running the prostitute, the mob were turning human
trafficking into a sick joke in the Republic. They probably didn’t take kindly
to losing an asset.
She turned her eyes back to her companion who at that time was slowly
perusing the menu, she flicked her coat off over the back of her seat revealing
a skin tight belly top and too much jewellery. They could have been there to
intimidate him or otherwise interfere with the investigation, or Kasun conceded
it could be pure coincidence.
He went back to the case file but kept one wary eye on the new arrivals.
“Sorry I’m late,” Horvat arrived at Kasun’s shoulder, nearly making the
detective jump, “I was held up at the Sebastian. Would you believe that their
entire camera system failed on the day of the murder?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Kasun closed the folder, “was it sabotaged or turned
off?”
Horvat sat as the waiter arrived with a menu, the detective pointed at
the espresso and indicated he should bring two then returned to his partner.
“We’ve got the killers coming in from the emergency stairwell, two men
in balaclavas, ski masks-“
“Hold on, I thought you said the camera failed?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Horvat removed his notepad and
flicked several pages in, a camera still of two hooded men in black leather
jackets appeared on the paper, “we have these two guys arriving around 11am,
they come from the south side stairwell and proceed directly to Macmillan’s
room, half an hour later they leave. Then there is no more activity in the
corridor until the cleaner arrives two hours later.”
The image on the paper changed to show the cleaning cart stop outside
the room and the Filipino maid knock on the door. The image changed again, now
running a sequence of stills of the maid opening the door, then entering the
room, the door almost closed, then her running out the door and up the corridor
to the emergency telephone.
“The crime was reported, and in the twenty minutes it took our men to
arrive on scene the cameras recorded this.”
The image on the notepad changed to static.
“We have twenty minutes of this,” Horvat said, “it stopped literally
seconds before we got to the room.”
“That’s analog static,” Kasun said, “something interfered with the
signal before it was recorded.”
“Right, because if the equipment had been interfered with it would have
recorded blackness, or not at all. Somebody didn’t want to be seen.”
“Our mystery fingerprinter,” Kasun couldn’t take his eyes off the
static, “he must have been on the scene at the time it was reported, and knew
our response time. A second contractor?”
“Macmillan must have been a popular guy.”
“Have you shown this to the Legislator yet?”
“No, he hasn’t been near us all day.”
“What?”
Kasun nearly knocked the tray of coffee from the hands of the waiter
who had arrived back at their table just five seconds too soon, the Russian couple looked over.
“We’ve had no contact with him since last night,” Horvat paid for the
coffee, “and Parliament aren’t answerable to us so we figured he was off
following up his own leads. I thought that I’d be able to fill him in with you
now.”
“He never showed up,” a chill ran up Kasun’s spine despite the heat of
the afternoon sun, the last conversation that he had with Sandford was the
Legislator organising this meeting, “any word on the mail?”
“No, I sent him a note this morning about the ball bearings but it hasn’t
been opened yet.”
“Right, head to the precinct and see what you can find out,” Kasun rose
from the table and gathered his files, “I’m going to his hotel.”
Horvat downed his espresso, “Will do.”
He was about to walk off as Kasun paused mid turn, “What was the note
on the ball bearings?”
“Just metallurgy, the steel was Irish, came from a plant in Killarney.”
The detective nodded and strode off into the crowd on the
Placa-Stradum, Horvat dithered a moment checking his notes, he paid no heed to
the Russian couple as they left.
***
Executor Monaghan strode along the marble corridors of Buckingham
Palace on his way for a meeting with the President, a position that was more
symbolic than functional but in many cases appearances were enough to keep the
population satisfied.
The current President was different from the usual sacrificial lamb
however, he had served in an aerotech unit offworld and had a healthy distrust
for the triumvirate system that governed the Republic. Mostly he feared that
the Judicators had failed in their duty to reign in the Parliamentary houses
and that Congress was now subject to the whim of the Executive and Legislative
houses. This was entirely true and had been the case for a long time, however
it had only been of late that Parliament had become more obvious about this
control.
Monaghan didn’t care much whether the public knew how things really
worked or not, even if it were not the case there would always be conspiracy
nuts who would say it was. He did however care for the institution, the idea of
democracy rather than democracy itself had served the Republic well, the people
liked having a public office as the highest level of state, even if it was a
powerless figurehead. It was the very idea that any man or woman could be the
leader of the vast entity that was the Republic that kept the populace in line,
the illusion bound them together better than fear of the armed forces ever
would.
When the President approached him with his suspicions about the erosion
of power it had been a subtle testing of the water, but he knew as well that
things had been changing for the worse in Parliament. For Monaghan it stemmed
from the fact that he simply did not trust Villeford.
He quietly recruited a few other trusted Executors to keep watch on the
Parliamentary actions, to watch on the foundations of the Republic, to avert
any movement that could lead to what was maybe at this point an inevitable civil
war.
***
Things went momentarily black as Kasun’s head slammed against the
coarse brickwork, he tasted blood in his mouth from a burst lip, a sharp blow
to the kidney collapsed him to the ground.
Tears came to his eyes as he spat a mouthful of blood onto the alley
floor, as he tried to rise a hand grabbed the back of his neck and another
around his belt and he was thrown again into the wall.
The big Russian loomed over him whilst the woman waiting until she was
sure they had the detective’s full attention.
Kasun was no small man himself but the Russian rained blows that left
him with little to do but try to shield himself with his now tenderised arms.
There was a thunderous bang and a spray of hot liquid covered Kasun’s
face, he scrambled back in shock as suddenly the Russian collapsed, a gaping
hole in his head.
The woman was backing away from a man silhouetted by daylight at the
end of the alleyway, he had a long barrelled revolver aimed squarely at her
chest and she was repeating something in Latvian, probably something along the
lines of ‘don’t shoot’.
“I’m not that kind of policeman,” the man said in English but in a
voice devoid of accent, then he shot her once through the heart and she fell
onto her back, her eyes watching him as the life drained slowly from her body.
The last thing that she ever saw was the puff of fire from the barrel of the
gun aimed at her head, her execution.
“Drop the gun,” Kasun struggled to draw and level his own gun on the man, blood
ran into one eye and the other was half blinded by involuntary tears from the
beating.
“Terrible business having to deal with the Russian mob,” the man said
as he holstered his pistol, “we’re trying to bring stability to the stars and
we can’t even wipe out organised crime back home.”
The man hunkered next to the woman and went through the pockets of her
coat then through her purse.
“I appreciate your assistance, but I said drop your gun, not holster
it.”
The man looked back at Kasun who balked with sudden recognition, it was
the handsome man from the café.
“Lower your weapon, detective,” he said, rising and walking over to the
injured officer, he extended his hand, “Executor Constantine Gainsborough.”