Ashton had to acknowledge the wisdom of that.
The next morning, he managed to avoid running into her by dint of being late to work. He slipped into the back of the morning briefing under Carter’s shift opposite, and stood in the rear of the room, where he could slip out just as quickly.
As soon as Carter ended the shift briefing, Ashton ducked out the door and headed for his assigned beat, hoping to stay on the far side of the arcade from Tabby’s beat.
Then the emergency call came in.
It was very early in the morning, before any of the shops or businesses had opened. Since Ashton was already out on his general patrol in the arcade level, with an experienced beat cop only a few blocks away on the street level above, dispatch contacted him – he was less than a block from the site of the emergency, just around the corner – and he hit the pedal on his arcade cart, zipped around to the location, and entered the building.
“I’m Officer Ashton, from the Imperial Police,” he barked as soon as he passed the – surprisingly – unlocked door. In the corner, several people were crouched next to a security guard, who sat on the floor, seeming a bit confused. Then he noticed the trickle of blood running down the side of the guard’s face. Uh-oh, he thought. “Who’s in charge, and what’s going down?” he continued aloud.
“I am,” an older woman said, rising from the guard’s side and stepping forward. “I’m Anne Roberts. I run the museum; I’m the direct descendant of George Roberts, Personal Secretary to Empress Kolbesdeka, over four centuries ago.” She pointed. “Our security guard, Michael Anders, was patrolling around the Sigil, and just as he turned, someone knocked him on the head. We’re not sure how long he’s been out.”
“Not long,” Anders said. “I never blacked out. It just stunned me.”
“What’s the Sigil?” Ashton wondered.
Roberts and Anders stared at him.
The building, as it turned out, was a tiny museum dedicated to the Throne – The Museum of the Throne, it was called, lack of imagination notwithstanding – and run by the family of a former Personal Secretary to the Empress in one of the earlier reigns of Empresses, when matters were a bit more feudal. Kolbesdeka had been one of the more famous of her era, responsible for consolidating the holdings of the Empire, and more importantly, more formally codifying the rule of law under the Throne. Most of the exhibits were memorabilia, heirlooms the family had kept over the years, passing them down from generation to generation as treasures.
Of those treasures, none was more precious or more revered than the Empress’ Sigil, a signet ring from Empress Kolbesdeka, dating from the days before everything was done – before it could be done – in virtual reality, and given to the Personal Secretary. It was a sign of his authority on her behalf, established by no less than an Imperial Decree. It was not only a sign of her favor, but could be used as an ink seal denoting her authority on documentation, or in wax seals on formal documents or envelopes. The mark of that Sigil on anything was the same as the Empress’ signature, at least in that era.
The system had been superseded eventually by ever more sophisticated electronic means, but the Empress’ Sigil was still looked upon as a legitimate means of conveying authority, and no Empress had ever contravened that original Imperial Decree, but it was no longer used. Which, Ashton decided, was likely why he had never heard of it before.
“What about security alarms?” Ashton wondered.
“We’re not sure,” Roberts said, puzzled. “It didn’t go off. I have a call in to the security company to see if there was a glitch or something. It was pure luck that several of us came in early to work on the design for a new exhibit.”
“Mm. So if you were hit on the head,” he said to the guard, “I guess you never saw the guy who hit you?”
“Well, just as I hit the floor, I did,” Anders admitted. “I guess he expected to knock me out, because he wasn’t careful to stay out of my line of sight. It wasn’t really clear, but I got a decent look at his profile as he turned.”
“So it was a he.”
“Yeah. Tall, moderately muscular, lean. He just walked over to the display case, paused and looked like he was in VR for a moment, the lock clicked, and he reached in and grabbed the Sigil and sauntered out. Wasn’t more than five, ten minutes before the others came in.”
“He sauntered out?! He didn’t run?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you pass me an image of his face in VR? Meet me in channel 621.”
Anders entered the VR channel and produced a “photo” of his assailant. He held it up for the young policeman to see. Moments later, Ashton found himself looking at a familiar face.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, exiting VR, then he turned and ran out of the museum.
That face had been familiar from Ashton’s youth. It was the head of the gang that had burglarized the house of his playmate Andrew, one Bill Jakes, according to his old detective mentor. What Jakes was doing on Sintar, Ashton wasn’t sure, let alone why he was after something so valuable and historic; that hadn’t been the Jakes Gang’s modus operandi. But it was a fact that Detective Waterford had not been able to capture him, out of the entire gang.
More, Ashton was sure he had seen a certain familiar face –familiar from mug sheets Waterford
