Daleman's Log - 02 / 02 /2120, cont'd

Quillian Daleman - Personal Log
02 / 02 / 2120 F.A., second entry

The call came while Lilja was in the shower. Moon City seldom sleeps. Except it wasn't Central Processing this time. It was Chief Superintendent Westmund.

"Detective-Inspector," he said. "There's been a break-in. Museum of the Last Alliance."

I sat up and swung my legs over the bed. Phone to my ear, I fished around for panties and socks. If this wasn't through Central Processing, then I wasn't being assigned the case, at least not officially. Which smelled like department politics.

"Who's in charge of the case?" I asked. "Why me?"

The Chief Superintendent ignored my questions.

"The Museum is under special jurisdiction," he said. "A very old clause of the Reunited Megacorporation constitution puts it out of our official purview, but we've been ordered to render all available assistance. You are to be the police liaison to the Antiquities Recovery Department. Your contact with that department will be Agent Arnorson. And Daleman?"

"Yes, sir?" I said, stiffly phone squeezed between ear and shoulder as I pulled my pants on.

"You're assigned to this for the same reason you were assigned to those accidental deaths earlier today," he said. That meant nothing to anyone else, but established that we were both working on behalf of the Lodgemaster. Vaguely, I wondered how high up the Crown Players' influence actually went in Moon City. "You're a good detective. Do your job. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut."

"Understood, sir," I said. Except he'd already clicked off. My eye caught the spent honey packet on the floor. In the bathroom, the water shut off automatically. Lilja had used up my entire ration. An expensive tip.

The museum was located in the old city. Rimmer was driving me again, and we didn't speak until after we'd passed the old walls that used to surround the city. Here, the streets narrowed, and Rimmer turned on the autodrive, letting the computer take over.

"Sorry they called you in again," I asked, and studied the back of his head. Rimmer was a local. Young, he'd gone into the academy as soon as they'd let him out of school. Three years as a street cop. Hadn't passed the detective exam and wasn't like to.

"It's the job, Detective-Inspector," Rimmer said, stiffly formal. But I could see the shadows under his eyes, how his uniform was wrinkled. They'd called him out of bed to pick me up. Probably before they called me.

"Good to know you're a player, Rimmer," I said. His head twitched at that. One hazel eye met mine.

"Ma'am?" he said, trying to play it cool.

"Team player," I said, though that wasn't what I meant. Before Rimmer could think up a convincing lie, the car came to a stop. Someone stepped out of the building to greet us.

Agent Arnorson was a Northerner in look as well as name. Light of hair and eye, slim and tall, with sensual lips and a thin, straight nose. Despite the hour, his pinstripe suit was immaculate, and his long dark coat made his pale skin stand out all the more. What caught my attention was his hands. They were articulated metal, shiny as new, and the jacket didn't quite fit right over his shoulders.

I offered my hand, but Arnorsan didn't take it. Grip strength could be tricky, the first few months after you get cyberarms. Or so I'm told. I let my hand fall. I towered over him by more than a head, and my shoulders were twice as broad, but if it came to a fight I'd tried to take his head off in one swipe. Getting within reach of those arms could be deadly.

"You're a woman," he said, flatly. I raised an eyebrow. On a chest as broad as mine, the breasts didn't stand out as much, but most people can still figure things out.

"Problem?" I asked.

"None. We just don't see a lot of women in our line of work. Our agency is a bit...old-fashioned." Arnorson said.

Which was stupid enough that it was probably true.

"Can't say I know much about your agency," I said.

"We are...select. Ancient, really," he said. "Our precursor organization was founded not long after the War of the Last Alliance. But you'll see for yourself. This way, please."

Rimmer stayed with the car.

The Museum of the Last Alliance had once been a tower, part of the old city walls. Now it held ancient tapestries, bits of armor and weapons of Orc, Elf, Man, and Dwarf. The older displays had a stiff quality to them, while the newer ones included video and holographic displays. I expected it was popular with groups of school children during the daytime. Security in almost archaic-looking uniforms swarmed the entrance; I swore they wore actual maille shirts or hauberks or whatever the hell you call them. They all deferred to Arnorson and let us through.

"The intruder breached one of the walls where the old tunnels used to connect," the agent said, as he led us deep into the tower. "The most valuable artifacts on display are facsimiles, reproductions. Whoever they were knew that. They went straight for the Black Museum."

We stepped into an elevator. Arnorson pressed the two lowest buttons simultaneously, and held them for a moment, until the yellow lights turned red. When the elevator began to move, I noted that it stopped at a point which should have been between two floors. The doors slid open and I saw a short corridor. A pair of heavy metal doors at the other end lay in fragments, the ceiling had collapsed, and there were guards with SMGs at the ready. Nothing like guarding the henhouse after the fox is gone.

"The Black Museum," Arnorson continued. "Contains relics recovered after the War of the Last Alliance not suitable for public display."

"Not suitable, why?" I asked.

Arnorson paused. He didn't meet my eye.

"Too dangerous," he said at last.

It was little more than a vault, with glass cases on either side. I saw bits and pieces of excessively ornate armor. Broken and burnt rings. Fragments of ancient tomes. Tiny gems that glowed with their own internal light, like trapped stars. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, and my skin itched. Something about this stuff bothered me profoundly.

The display case at the far end of the vault was shattered. A black velvet cushion lay empty, the impression of something long and slender lay on it.

"This," Arnorsan said, as his metal hand hovered over the broken display case. "Was the resting-place of the last of the Morgul-blades, recovered from the final Nazgûl."