a prequel short story by MD Boncher
I wrote this short story as a gift to anyone who would subscribe to my old newsletter, and now I am providing a sneak peak for Substack readers! Take a look and if you like what you see and want more, check out the options below to get the rest of the story!
1.
The militia garrison’s automated ground control sprung to life and began clearing its landing pad for the approaching warjet. Robots began moving equipment out of the way, oblivious to the huge drifts of snow scraping clear paths as they went.
Marker lights pulsed brightly, reflecting off the billows of frozen fluff in the deep purple sky. The strange curls of aurora borealis silhouetted the approaching ship. Her grav fans flickered a muddy rainbow as they ate up the storm, adding its own crackling roar to the howl of the storm. Landing lights flooded the pad inside the fortress walls, while anti avian netting retracted on tall pylons to let in the craft.
A lone militiaman staggered out of the main garrison to investigate as the airship set down. He looked up to see the giant star of Xiao illuminated on the belly of the warjet, proclaiming her imperial master. He held up his hands to protect his face from another cloud of white flakes into the air by the ship gracefully setting down. The automated landing crew secured the warjet as her fans shut down.
The militiaman leaned against a rack of missiles carelessly left exposed to the weather. Another whistling gust of wind snapped his unbuckled jacket wide open, exposing his half disheveled uniform with a bracing sub zero. He fought to wrap himself up again, dropping his bottle of spirits to the ground where it stood upright in the snow. By the time he got his fur coat and jacket secured, the doors of the jet were open and the nose ramp extended down. He looked out from under the brim of his large cossack style hat to see a figure walking out of the airship toward him. It was a lone imperial marshal.
“H-halt!” The drunken lawman’s challenge was soundly unimpressive. “Who’re you?” he slurred.
The imperial approached through the thick, falling snow in silence. Wind gusts swirled in white sheets around him, obscuring his form and making him look like an indigo phantom. His armor shone brightly under the harsh lights, cape snapping and popping in the wind.
He came to a stop in front of the slovenly guard. “I am Marshal Dynne,” he announced, “here on official imperial business.”
Dynne’s calm cool eyes, almost hidden under his armored visor, looked his lesser comrade-in-arms up and down with an air of indifference. Without a word, he reached down, retrieving the dropped bottle from the snowdrift.
“Zlatnya Aquavit,” he mused as he read the label. “Quite the fine choice of spirit to drink.” His visor went transparent, and the militiaman blanched as saw his disapproval plain on his face. “What are we celebrating?”
The militiaman said nothing.
“I see,” Dynne whispered, then held out the bottle. The man took it back with faintly trembling fingers. The marshal walked around the drunkard and strode into the garrison entrance to conduct his business.
The door clanged shut behind him. He paused in the suddenly calm air to evaluate the facility. The muffled howl of the driving wind echoed through the empty reception area and the bullpen. He took in the room’s ambience and his jaw tightened. Garrison life was often crude and rough in this part of the Dream.
A dark cloud grew over his already grim mood and Marshal Dynne’s nose wrinkled at the sight and smell. The filth here was so far beyond the pale of what he expected. This building and its people were to be an example of law and order to Xiao’s subjects! It should shine with the glory of the emperor, not mirror the pits of sin and criminal enterprise he normally fought.
The desk and ready room were empty. The comms went unanswered as no deputies stood at their posts. A half dozen emergency alert-comm requests from around the skyland went unacknowledged. A murder. Two robberies, an assault and property crimes. Law enforcement was non-existent here, save for a few token patrols. Marshal Dynne let out a hiss through clenched teeth. It surprised him to see his fist was shaking and realized he had balled it up painfully hard. He flexed his fingers a few times, wiggling them in order to limber his hand up while walking toward the Sheriff’s office. He regarded the name on the door, Borochev, before going in.
As expected, it was messy and vacant. Outside the office window, he could see the drunk militiaman running through the snow toward the staff parking structure. The man’s panicked flight, flailing through deep drifts, would change nothing. There was nowhere for him to run. Marshal Dynne went to the computer on the desk and showed the security scanner his badge.
It pinged and opened. With a grunt, he found the computer had no imperial data security protocols. Neither did the required AI activate. He spent a few minutes accessing the files of recent events. They sequestered the official imperial AI as a virus, preventing it from doing its job.
Dynne’s jaw muscles were pulsing as he ground his teeth. He squinted in shame. This place had fallen so far. He closed down the system and locked it with an evidence seal, then blew out of the office, cape streaming behind him.
With a few quick strides, he found the evidence locker. The seals didn’t respond to his imperial access authority and remained locked down. They had modified this system, too.
The doorway to the holding cells was open, no jailer present. He opened the prisoner control app at the jailer’s desk. Two criminals should be here. He barged through the door, noting that at least the security turrets were online as they immediately swiveled to track him. They ran their scan, recognized his badge, then returned to a neutral guard. Dynne walked to the end of the short hall, checking every cell. Not a soul was present, nor did any jailer arrive to challenge him.
A copper taste flooded Dynne’s mouth. He’d had enough of this charade. Through the wall, he could hear a soft thumping. That sound shouldn’t exist here. That music belonged to a fentonol den or raver club, not in this place.
“I’m going in to talk with the sheriff. I’m not finding the answers I want,” he commed back to his airship, “Be ready.”
“Aye, sir,” his second responded.
Dynne turned on his heel and marched back through the main room, heading for the short hallway in the back and the source of the bawdy music blaring from beyond the closed door at the end.
Garrisons, being fashioned after ancient firehouses, had a dayroom for off duty members to amuse themselves. Dynne had seen all kinds. All acquired local flavors over time, no matter the regulations. It was a relatively minor thing. Some took on the comforts of home. Others were brusque and rigid. Happy troops and lawmen were more effective.
But this dayroom took him aback.
Marshal Dynne’s senses were immediately assaulted after he turned the door open slid open. His environmental filters kicked in as it detected Djambiku pheromone smoke. His sonic filters kicked on and washed out the pink noise that tainted the music with subsonic manipulators. Smoke and vape hung in the air like perverted incense. Hololights projecting backup singers dressed like glossy showgirls wandered about the room. A mechoid servant sashayed up to him.
“Are you being served, master?” it propositioned. Dynne pursed his lips. The synthetic garrison mechoids had been hacked, transmogrified into synthetic prostitutes with as little class as a pariah brothel in Muoy Saigon. One came up to him. Remnants of a beautiful latex dress, ruptured and torn, hung in loose sheets on its lush aftermarket bodymods. They had destroyed it during rough passion or abuse. Makeup smeared on its face like careless finger paint in a mockery of artistic femininity.
He swallowed tightly and ignored the request, politely blocking an attempt to drape an arm around him with a raised arm and shake of his head. His attention zeroed in on the scene playing out in the middle of the room.
Four men sat at a poker table. Between them was an enormous pile of gold ingots and gems. A passed out reptiloid deputy was on the floor, half under the table, leaving a chair vacant.
Dynne walked around the outskirts toward a karaoke machine that was the source of the music. Everyone was stoned, drunk or simmed out by a variety of deviant amusements. An undulating movement caught his eye. He looked to see a writhing bundle on a couch in the gloomy corner. From the sound of it, a couple were busy making love, a thin blanket their only screen of privacy.
He stepped up on a tiny stage with a stripper pole, reached over to the music machine and killed the power. The subsonics that drove the bacchanal ended, allowing some inhabitants to return to their senses.
A chorus of groans and angry protests filled the room, the occupants unhappy at being woken early from a pleasant dream.
“What the behng?” a poker player growled, looking at the stage. His blurry eyes focused on the Eye of Xiao logo decorating Marshal Dynne’s chest. He blinked in shock at what he saw, adrenaline helping to sober him a little. The icy wind outside seemed to penetrate the dayroom as others realized who stood in their midst.
“My Xiao…” Breathed someone.
“No,” Marshal Dynne replied firmly. “That’s ‘Hail Xiao’.”
Slowly, he raised his hands in the imperial salute. Right hand over left, in front of his face, fingers spread, thumbs pointing straight up and down, mimicking the ten pointed imperial star.
Those who were able returned the salute. Others, still incoherent, barely mumbled the appropriate reply. The table of poker players gave icy stares in return. The marshal’s headshake was almost imperceptible.
“I would speak with Sheriff Borochev, please,” Marshal Dynne announced to the room.
No one answered. Not that it mattered. The marshal was giving the sheriff a chance. It was fairly clear what had happened before his arrival.
“I am here serving a capias warrant for one of your prisoners, for a biont named ‘Tollman’.”
Again, icy silence. He stepped down from the little stage. Like a shark circling its prey, he traipsed around the room. His heels echoed sharply off the walls. “Per the report, you detained him on a smuggling charge. Does anyone have any information on if he’s here?”
Dynne glanced at the contents of the table piled high with tiny gold ounce bars, mixed with a variety of gemstones and cut jewels. The estimated size of the pot on this poker hand was outrageous. A single pistol lay on top as ante.
“Quite a game you have going on,” he complimented. “Couple of you are ‘all-in’, I think. Fitting really.”
“He’s gone,” one man at the table said. He was not dressed in a militia uniform.
The Marshal turned toward the speaker. “And who might you be?” he asked.
The man stood to his feet. “I am Count Ontorosk’s Chief judge and magistrate, Milvec,” the man said proudly.
Dynne stepped to the empty chair, pulled it out, gently pushed the unconscious reptiloid out of the way with his foot.
“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but circumstances predict this won’t be the most pleasant of interviews.” Marshal Dynne said and gestured for the judge to sit. As the judge sat down, so did Marshal Dynne. Behind him, he heard some of the militia deputies slinking out of the dayroom. He didn’t bother to watch them leave.
A giant spliced man sitting beside the judge snorted a few squirts of a neutralizing tonic and shook his head, regaining his senses as the compound cleared all inebriants from his system. Halfheartedly, he attempted to straighten his jacket, the braid and insignia on the collar revealing him to be Sherriff Borochev himself.
Dynne pinned him with a laconic stare. “Now, if you can explain, why is this Mr. Tollman gone?” he asked, draping his cape over the back of his chair and crossing his arms.
“There was no reason to hold him. It was an error during the scan cargo manifest. Some deputy flagged it for smuggling by mistake. There were some mistakes in his paperwork, but those were misdemeanor fines. He paid them and we let him go,” Sheriff Borochev said.
“I see.” Dynne gave a grave nod.
“It seems you made this long trip to the dark deeps of the Dream for nothing, officer,” Judge Milvec said, shrugging. He gave the marshal an oily smile.
“No, no. That’s fine,” Marshal Dynne said with a gentle wave of his hand. “I had to follow all the leads. You physically inspected the cargo, I assume?”
“No need. It was just a paperwork error,” Borochev insisted.
“A paperwork error,” Dynne mused. “Out of curiosity, sheriff, do you find it odd that I’m here?”
“A little over something so petty.” The sheriff peered at him with rheumy eyes.
“Mm… Well, perhaps you have a question for me regarding that?”
Borochev shook his head slowly. “They send imperials on wild goose chases all the time. Why should this be different?”
“Ah!” Dynne said. “Now that is the question. Why should this be different? Can you guess, Judge?”
“I do not presume to know Emperor Xiao’s mind,” the judge answered stiffly.
“Hail Xiao,” Dynne whispered. He reached forward, plucked a few items from the pot, analyzed them, then tossed them back.
There was a ping from his internal monitor. The air quality was finally safe, so he removed his helmet and set it on the table.
He saw Borochev’s eyes widen and heard the judge draw in a sharp breath as the men recognized Dynne’s tribe. He was a Paragon. The tribe of idyllic Nietzschean supermen who were supposedly the evolutionary pinnacle of humanity. He had the handsome features of a demi-god, with a lantern jaw and near literal gold color hair. His waxed moustache and soul patch tapered into a classic imperial style. Icy cyan eyes that crinkled the corners with laugh lines seemed to penetrate their souls as he stared at them impassively. His demeanor was that of an archangel of Xiao’s justice. The two deputies who sat at the table beside their chief nakedly gaped at his beauty. Still under the influence of the pheromones, the female blushed with rising lust despite recognizing the danger.
“As I doubt you know, there was a rather embarrassing event that occurred a month back, wherein criminal scavengers absconded with a load of military weapons. So many that Xiao felt it necessary to dispatch hundreds of his marshals to run down all leads. My superiors selected me to investigate several suspects who might have an interest in, or been involved in, procuring these items,” Dynne explained.
He picked up a rare star sapphire and held it up in the light, examining its facets. “My, that’s pretty.” He tossed it back onto the pile. Borochev watched his hand like it was a cobra when it dipped into the kitty.
“Of course, many leads turned into dead ends. Figuratively and literally depending on how my interviews went with the subjects,” Dynne continued. “Cargo skimming is happening with every leg of its journey. I’ve recouped several pieces, but one large cache has eluded me thus far.”
“And you suspect this Mr. Tollman has it?” The judge interjected.
The marshal raised an eyebrow. “Suspect? Oh, no. He’s associated with the contraband. There is no suspicion. It is a known quantity. Where he became involved is immaterial for my needs. That subject I leave to Xiao’s torturers to extract after I capture Mr. Tollman.”
“He’s gone,” Borochev declared firmly.
“No. He’s not. He’s just hiding somewhere nearby.”
“What are you insinuating?” the judge raised his voice.
Dynne picked up the pistol, turning it over in his hand, getting a feel for the fine firearm. Borochev’s eyes remained glued to it, while Dynne’s locked on the judge.
“Let’s not be coy, your ‘honor’,” he breathed. “I’m holding the proof of Tollman’s crime, and your guilt as co-conspirators in it. How else would you have hundreds of thousands of credits in untraceable currency sitting here in a casual poker game pot? Not on any of your wages. You can’t get rich being a judge or a lawman… unless you’re crooked.”
“There’s many ways we could have so much money,” the male deputy blustered.
“Unlikely, but then we have this,” Dynne said, checking the action of the pistol. A musketball ejected from the breech, hitting the table with a hard thwack. Dynne picked it up gently between his forefinger and thumb, holding it out like a jeweler about to examine a stone with a loup.
“A Mark 27 GEM munition. Also known as a ‘shredder’. Illegal for any but an imperial official to use, let alone possess. It alone would be enough to have you all up on charges of imperial treason. Of course, if this insignificant item had been in your evidence locker, properly inventoried, you might have had a chance.” He curled his fingers around the ball. “However, the records that my agents downloaded from your system are more than enough evidence of guilt.”
Dynne’s icy blue eyes drilled into them. “Consider yourselves under arrest.”
The deputy lunged for the gun.
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