an old Sf story I wrote years ago, revamped; post apocalyptic and dystopian, in which the earth has been much flooded by the rise in sea level due to global warming, and the effects of that halted by nuclear winter from various wars and accidents. An empire has arisen which initially banned religion as it caused wars, but has taken veneration of heroes, ironically, into a new religion. And yes, this is deliberate satire An oppressive regime where heresy and mutancy is suppressed. Higher technology is used but not understood, and the search for Lost tech is important. The hero of the tale is Leo Quester, a Judiciary, who has ultimate power as judge, jury, and executioner, and like the judges of old China must also undertake his own investigations. A roving troubleshooter, in fact. And Quester is dumped into a boondocks military camp to investigate the murder of a political officer who has friends at court...
Chapter 1
“My
thanks for your consideration, Lieutenant,” said Justicior Quester. “I
appreciate being set down closer to the
barracks. I hope the manoeuvring of the ornithopter will not be difficult.”
“You
are welcome, sir,” said the Lieutenant. “This rain is nasty; I’d rather have a
proper downpour than this steady, penetrating rain, it seems to find its way
into every garment.”
Quester
agreed, but it would be a loss of dignity to the Inquisition to admit to
it. It was nice, however, not to be
saturated, which was also a loss of face.
His grey cloak and deep cowl protected him from a lot of weather , but
having to cross the parade ground would not have been comfortable. He nodded to
the ornithopter pilot, and gave him a half-smile to indicate approval.
The
colonel was awaiting him, and looked like a drowned rat. The scarlet tunic of
the Mountas Militia was darkened by rain and his dark blue trousers clung
unbecomingly to rather skinny legs. Quester noted, with some disapproval, that
the man’s shirt collar, visible above the tunic, was less than clean, even in
the rain.
The
colonel was also trying to hide his nervousness, continually trying to loosen
his collar, and shifting from one foot to the other. And well he might be
nervous, reflected Quester. After all,
finding your Zampolit dead from violence did not generally happen in
well-ordered Militia Regiments. Especially not a Mountas regiment, one of the
elite units of purebred humans. He was probably an imposing enough figure when
not saturated, and maybe even good-looking, with light brown hair darkened by
the rain, a fair complexion and even features unmarred by radiation burns or
the ravages of disease. The way he kept
tugging at his collar might explain why it was so soiled.
At
least this island, or this region of it, was relatively pastoral, so that rain
was just the standard slightly carbonated water. No heavy pollutants to worry about. It was a far-flung lump of rock, with some
resources, chiefly carbons in deep mines. The local currents also made the
location good for wave power and there was a hydrogen extraction plant on the
far end of the island, to use in Imperial Zeppelins. Helium was too rare and
precious to use for common transports, and only available from a secret
underwater base in the Imperial Central Islands. The greater number of the population of this
Lincon-forsaken rock were Augsheep, augmented sheep, seeded with nanites to
convert the carbons in the atmosphere into polymers to grow polywool fibres in
the fleeces for greater durability.
The
ornithopter hummed behind Quester as the
pilot took it closer to the unloading area.
They would be up and down for several days from the cramped,
uncomfortable Zeppelin on which Quester was currently a passenger. He considered sardonically that the Colonel
must have received news that an Justicior was aboard with mixed feelings –
relief at being able to pass the buck of his murdered Zampolit, tinged with a
healthy drop of fear.
The
Colonel surveyed Quester gloomily as they passed together into the dry of the
main barracks block. It was a plain building of plascrete, with little attempt
at decoration beyond a minimally ornamented neo-heroic archway to the main
entrance. Even the stocky telamones
supporters of the arch were undistinguished and miserable looking. Inside was little better. The passageway was narrow and dark. Sometime in the past, scenes of the lives of
Heroes had been painted along the walls, but it had been so long since they had
been renewed that they were cracked and peeling. Somehow the result was worse than if the
walls had been left bare, the peeling saints appearing reproachful in their
decrepit dignity.
Quester
had been requested to attend Colonel Rebet Strong at the small barracks on the
Island of Cumry. The Justicior had
agreed to break his journey since the stopover was a scheduled one for the
supply zeppelin. The Colonel had seemed
strained when he had spoken on the Skyph-link when he reported the murder of
the Zampolit, as well he might; and now Quester wanted him to expand upon that
bald statement.
“You
said your Zampolit had been murdered; and you needed my presence,” said
Quester. “Is there some problem over
what happened, that you need an Justicior? It is not an open-and-shut case?”
“My
Zampolit was brutally murdered in his own room,” Colonel Strong said. “And he’s not been with us that long – the
previous one died in battle. It is an open-and-shut
case, but I thought I ought to report this … since you had arrived ...”
Quester
nodded, more encouraging him to go on than as a signal of agreement.
Politically it was a sensible thing to do, to pass the buck to an Justicior. It
was too much to expect any Zampolit, the Political Officer, to be much missed
by anyone. Indeed, most people probably would cheer to lose the member of their
regiment who kept them politically reliable, save when it brought a member of
the Inquisition upon them. Few would have the sheer impudence to murder a man
who held their political morals in his grasp, but that of course was why the
colonel was glad to pass the buck.
“He was
murdered,” repeated Strong, as though he could hardly believe it. “And by his
own bodyguard! I could scarcely believe
it – but the evidence… you’ll want to see it…”
a tic started in his face, and he tugged tremulously at the gold braid
on his scarlet tunic.
“I’ll
see the evidence and see what it says to me,” Quester said quietly. “You have held the bodyguard?”
“Oh yes, Justicior, he’s in the cells,”
“Does he confess to the crime?”
“Well… sort of,”
Quester stared at the man.
“‘Sort
of’? What kind of reply is that? Either he admits or denies guilt. ‘Sort of’ sounds to me like a confession
obtained by coercion, Colonel,” He
fixed the frightened officer with a piercing gaze over his high hooked nose. Strong swallowed.
“He
said it was his fault, Justicior. He
wouldn’t say any more. No one’s coerced
him at all,” He tried to explain
hastily. Quester snorted.
“It doesn’t occur to you that a conscientious
bodyguard might just consider his principal’s death to be his fault by his
failure to protect him?” he asked
scathingly. “This man does not sound
over endowed with brains – but I suppose that’s not a requirement for a minder,”
The
colonel smiled thinly.
“Burdock’s
an Ogroid. Smarts aren’t their long
suit,” he said dryly. “But it’s not just
his claim that it’s his fault that is the reason I have to suspect him –
Clintwood’s head was stove in. Surely
only an Ogroid hand could do something like that. Or, of course, a Highbred, but of course we
have no Highbred troops stationed here, even if they were likely to stoop to
murder one of we lesser beings ...” he lost himself in half sentences, as
Quester scowled. Criticising the Highbred was sedition. The colonel hastily went on, “Moreover,
Burdock was stumbling around and confused when I got there. Poor man, he must have suffered a
brainstorm. I don’t think he remembers
anything about the incident,”
Quester
grunted non-committally. He had no
intention of forming a theory without being in possession of all the facts; and
he told the colonel so.
“And,”
he added pompously, “I need to see the body before I can proceed any further,”
“Certainly,
Justicior,” Colonel Strong gave no sign that the Justicior’s fussy and pedantic
manner might irritate him. A mere
Colonel of the Militias, even the vaunted Mountas, did not criticise an Justicior!
Strong
led Quester to the officers’ quarters.
The corridor was a little wider here, and a standard nine feet in
height, and had been finished in synthstone effect panelling. It had been painted as black marble, however,
and the dark walls appeared to converge overhead. A few tracts and icons had
been hung haphazardly along the walls; Quester played a game with himself as
they proceeded of trying to guess who the icons were supposed to represent. The
one channelling lightning had to be Benfrankin, the first ever Tech Savant, and
saintly hero of their order, the Tech Wardens. The rest, on the whole, might
have been of almost anyone. The one shooting someone might be Levyaswald, who
had killed the heretical Kinny Dee, the doomed anti-hero who had started the
Great Destruction by ordering the heretical penetration of space. Quester
sighed; any man who held a lasrifle like that would be so deformed he would be
disposed of as a mutant. However, Quester was pulled up short by one at the
contrast it made with the others in its sheer staggering beauty. Unlike the
gaudy, flat and unimaginative attempts that had preceded it, this painting was
redolent with life. It showed an unmistakable
image of the saintly hero Jyowoshinton teaching the heathen how to fell a tree
for firewood, with a small figure of the noble Psion Benfrankin in the
background. It seemed to glow with light
and hope.
“This
is good,” Quester commented.
“You
think so?” The Colonel sounded
surprised. “It was hung there to cover a
wet patch. I find it rather dull and
colourless compared to the others,”
“Who
did it?”
The
Colonel shrugged.
“One of
the men. He was always daubing. He got killed in the last campaign against
the Commutants. Not much of a soldier,
anyway,”
Quester
counted slowly to ten.
“Move
this to a place that is not damp,” he said.
“It could be a treasure of your regiment one day. And if there are other paintings, I would
like to see them,”
The Colonel
looked surprised.
“I
expect they were burned,” he said, indifferently. “The body is this way,”
`Quester
resented the attempt at a subtle rebuke.
“It’s
waited several hours for me,”he said mildly. “It will wait a few minutes more,”
Tenderly
he unhooked the painting and exchanged its position for that of one of the
undistinguished daubs. Then he
contemplated it whilst praying fervently to the Holy God-Hero Abe for patience
in this uncultured hole. When he was
ready, he nodded to Strong.
“I am
at your disposal,” he said.
Zampolit
Clintwood’s day room was a contrast to the corridor. It was mellow and light, with a large window
overlooking the chapel. The walls
displayed synthwood panelling, and the wood colour chosen had been light ash,
and someone had tried with a modicum of success to enhance the moulded grain
with thinned darker paint run into the moulding. Rich hangings of polywool velvet added to the
atmosphere of comfort, and although the room exuded more of an air of luxury
than Quester approved of, it was at least a welcome change from the dreary
corridor. A single picture hung on the wall between a pair of golden velvet
drapes, made of truesilk, Quester thought; and he had no trouble recognising
the style of the dead soldier artist. It
showed the God-Hero enthroned, chin in hand, gazing thoughtfully out from sad,
loving eyes. Quester caught his
breath. Even the scorch marks along one
edge did not mar its beauty. It was similar to the reproductions of the lost
painting from Capital, showing a simple throne, as befitted the divine humility
of the Holy Abe.
“Since
this unit seems so sacrilegious as to try to burn sacred paintings, even of the
Holy God-Hero,” he remarked, angrily, “I trust you will not object if I take
this painting into my own care. Unless
the deceased has relatives,”
“Take
whatever you want!” The Colonel said,
hastily. “I know of no relatives. But I
assure you, no sacrilege was intended – we can’t store the work of every common
soldier who thinks he can profane the saints with his messes,”
It was
that he was a common soldier, Quester decided.
Had the painter been an officer, perhaps this boor would have seen some
merit because he expected to. He wanted
to say a lot; but contented himself with,
“From
simple hearts and minds come forth true praise and worship.” Gravely he
genuflected before the portrait of the God-Hero, and went to work. So beautiful
a representation would inspire him in his work, he thought.
The
body had not been moved,; Quester supposed he should at least be glad of
that. The Zampolit had been a big man,
and even death had not erased the laughter lines around the one identifiable
eye. The other eye was not merely
missing; it, and the majority of the left hand side of the man’s face had been
driven inwards, the skull crushed like an eggshell, brains seeping in a
reproachful grey ooze from what remained of the cranium. Strong retched dry, and Quester suspected
that it was not for the first time.
“I do
not require you to stay in here,” he said. Strong fled, gratefully. Quester
knelt, with a grimace, to examine the wound more closely. Blood and brain had spattered far, and he was
obliged to kneel in some of the human detritus in order to get a better look. He peered at the wound, noting its ovoid
shape, deepest in the middle of the blow.
He frowned, thoughtfully. The
blow had been from a smooth object perhaps a little smaller than a man’s head,
carrying great force or weight behind it.
The blow had been to the left temple, and seemed to have knocked Clintwood
right out of his chair at the desk on to the floor. He had been seated, then, when his assailant
had struck.
Quester
took his tweezers and several bags from his utility pouch, and a number of
swabs, and began to take systematic samples from the wound. God-Hero knew if he’d turn anything up, but
he could swear that there was a greyish silver mark on a shattered shard of
bone that was something other than brain matter. It bore further investigation under lenses
and with the alchemical analytical engine he had….acquired….from the
Tech-Wardens. Quester grinned to himself remembering the verbal battle royal he
had had with that self important fool of
a chief savant. He, Quester, had managed
to put the most pompous, the most sesquipedalian, the most polishedly specious
arguments as to why he required this marvellous machine – and training in how
to use it. A reputation for pompous
fussiness made most people write him off as a finical fool and give way more
easily for a quiet life – and also covered his meticulous investigations under
a cloak of sheer nosiness and interference.
Quester did not think that he would meet with the bland resistance so
often presented from this colonel; he seemed
at least genuinely concerned for the matter to be dealt with. But one never knew. No, one never knew. Quester got gingerly to his feet, trying not
to touch the revolting stickiness around him, and started to look around the
room. As he searched he whistled a
praise to the God-Hero tunelessly between his teeth. It was a bad habit, he knew, and his Father Justicior
had sometimes commented that those who did not know him might think it
heretical, but it helped him to think.
Something was missing. Something very important.
Quester had not expected to find a blunt
instrument left for him to discover; but there were certain items standard to
the equipment of a Zampolit. And one of
them was a Datatab. But the dead man’s
datatab was nowhere to be found.
Quester exited the room.
“The Ogroid did not kill his officer,” he said
bluntly.