"All right. But I want to see them soon."
"You will. I promise."
Zendeval Rjjn breathed out a sigh as he looked around him. Music thumped so loudly through the nightclub portion of Galedaro's that he couldn't hear himself think. Strobe lights in a rainbow of colors flashed across the dance floor and the usual capacity crowd was drinking, dancing and likely engaging in either sex or drug activity of some kind. He couldn't say that he liked any of it. He certainly had no appreciation for any of it and generally despised those who walked into the place, looking for titillation or escape.
Yes, he'd volunteered for the job, bechaithe jobause it was so much better than the alternative. He didn't like the alternative. At all. He felt it cheapened what remained of his race. All seventy-two of them. His father told him long ago that things were better in the distant past, but that was so far in the past as to be nearly myth, Zen figured. He'd never seen the good times, when the race had inhabited their own planet. His cousin Nedrizif held himself as King, now, although he bore no royal blood.
Zen's father, Zondilir, had been the last of a long line of Kings. Zen suspected Nedrizif of killing his father, but he could prove nothing. Ned's story was that he'd found Zen's father, bleeding from many wounds delivered by a monster that disappeared conveniently when Ned showed up. Ned also claimed that Zond passed the kingship to him, since he was with his uncle when he died. Either way, Nedrizif wore the ring that made him King. Zen had been far away at the time of his father's death. A convenience for Ned, a decided inconvenience for Zen.
Zen sighed again and walked toward the door that led into the employee's catacombs. Passed dressing rooms set aside for visiting musicians and performers, passed temporary sleeping quarters for some of the others who were on call. Walked by the door leading into the constantly busy kitchen.
Three master cooks worked the kitchens at Galedaro's, and Zen was looking for one more to handle another shift so the others could have days off. If he didn't hire someone suitable, he could lose at least two of his current cooks. They were overworked as it was and he couldn't afford that; good master cooks were extremely difficult to find and often required special treatment.
Tapping numbers into the keypad to bring his private elevator down, Zen stepped onto it and let the doors swish shut behind him. The conveyance operated on voice command—his voice and very few others. "Penthouse," he directed and was whooshed upward at a tremendous rate of speed. His comp-vid was going off before he set foot inside his quarters.
"Yes?"
"You'll have important visitors in seven days," Nedrizif informed him. "Six of them. Please ensure that they have the top suite and the best of everything. Have you hired the cook, yet?"
"I interviewed three today, and none of them was suitable. We have a standard to maintain, my King."
"Of course. Are there more interviews?"
"Yes. And I will place the advertisements again. I want the best we can get."
"As do I. Only the best will suit our guests, I assure you. I leave this task in your capable hands, cousin."
"I will do my best, my King."
"I depend upon it." Nedrizif terminated the communication. Zen punched the button a little slower and sighed again, tossing the comp-vid onto the hall table. His suite was sumptuous and he wanted for nothing, unless it was a bit of peace away from his cousin and the others. All of them postured and vied for position. Zen cared for none of it, but they were all that remained of his kind.
His father had told him once that they'd numbered in the millions before the fall of the race. A handful was all that was left, now. And here he was, the son of a King, taking orders and bowing down. At least, he thought for the second time in the same night, it's better than the alternative.
Chapter 5
"Mrs. Trispe?" Ry's voice sounded so sympathetic. I wish I had his gift, at times. He knew just the proper tone to take, every time. We'd come to speak with Jaske Trispe's mother the following morning, and had an interview with Maris Krastel's lover, Faldin Bierla, in the afternoon.
"You're from the ASD?" Shedrith Trispe seemed surprised that Rylend was an agent. I might agree with her, if I were in her place. Ry could grace any number of vid-mag covers, modeling the latest fashions or hairstyles.
"Yes. We've come to follow up on the case. We're still trying to determine what happened that would cause your poor son to deviate from his normal behavior."
"You do understand," Shedrith Trispe whispered, her eyes watering.
"Of course. Everyone says that this was so unlike him." Ry could have the worst of the worst eating from his hand in three blinks, I imagine.
"Please, come in." She held the door open for us. I followed Ry, not saying anything. We were led to seats in a small but tidy sitting room and drinks were offered. "He was such a good boy, even though he refused to work for Schuul Enterprises," Shedrith Trispe sighed as she sat across from us. "I didn't argue with his bid for independence, you know."
"Such a good parent," Ry said sympathetically. "Do you remember the other agent who came to speak with you?"
"Yes. He was nice as well, but not nearly as sympathetic. And I must admit, I'd just lost my boy, so I'm afraid I was weeping during the interview."
"Do you remember anything you talked about?" Ry asked.
"He just asked about Jaske. What he liked to do, where he liked to go. If he had any friends, that sort of thing."
"What do you think happened, Mrs. Trispe? Did something upset your son?"
"Not that I noticed," she said. "He was supposed to go out with a girl that he'd dated twice before, and he was looking forward to it. That's why all this is such a mystery. His life was opening up and he had a promising future, I think."
"Do we have the name of the girl?" Ry asked. "Just for my information," he added.
"I didn't have it for the other man; I told him I'd try to find it. Jaske was so secretive about the whole thing." She smiled, rose from her seat and went to a drawer, pulling out a comp-vid. "This was his, you know," she informed us and powered it up, scrolling through the menu. "Here it is—her name is Sedra." She handed the comp-vid to Ry with the information displayed.
"May I keep this for a day or so, just in case?" Ry asked. He could demand it, and I wondered why Bel hadn't asked for it. Perhaps it had slipped past him, somehow, during the questioning.
"Of course. I didn't find it until recently, I heard it ringing and found it tucked beneath Jaske's mattress. I'd have turned it over to the other man if I'd known about it before. I thought it was with Jaske when he—when he," she couldn't finish, she was weeping. I pulled tissues from the small handbag I carried and offered them to her. She took them and wiped her eyes and face. Jaske had killed himself, much like Maris Krastel had, by shooting himself in the neck and head with the laser pistol he had. More and more I found the similarities between the two cases curiously disturbing.font><p>